


The Greater Good

by Jackfan2, SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:18:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackfan2/pseuds/Jackfan2, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place immediately following the season 2 finale. When the boys arrive at Douai to retrieve Aramis, what exactly do they find? Since the monastery sits on Spanish soil, is it the safest place for a French Musketeer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This story is the result of a lot of speculation and desires for the coming season. Jackfan2 and I refuse to believe they stay separated for 4 years. After all, they were on their way to get Aramis at the end of season 2, and Athos himself was quite sure “Aramis would be here if he knew about the war.” Who are we to disagree with the Comte de La Fere? So this is our scenario for the beginning of season 3. We hope you enjoy!

The Greater Good

Chapter 1

The thunder of hooves disrupted the familiar serenity of the morning, villagers and monks alike stumbling to escape the onslaught of horseflesh barreling down upon them through the open gates of the monastery. Abbé Fouquet looked up from his dealings with the farmer, Pietro, to watch the cavalcade crowd into the courtyard of the once peaceful entreaty. 

“Soldiers!” Pietro whispered in awe. 

Although it wasn’t uncommon for regiments to pass through the area, seeking sustenance and a bed that wasn’t hard packed earth for a night’s respite, these men didn’t appear to be seeking a momentary peace. The monk watched with trepidation as the men fanned out and dismounted, several scrutinizing the architecture of the monastery – its walls, its towers, its gates. It left Fouquet uneasy and he heard Pietro’s breath hitch, echoing his concern.

“There is no reason to be frightened,” Fouquet spoke with a calm cultivated from years of peaceful existence despite his apprehension. “We welcome all who come seeking our assistance.”

There was no doubt Pietro’s assessment of the men was correct. The men were Spanish army from the looks of them. It was not difficult to tell from their bearing, not to mention the myriad of weapons each and every one of them displayed. Fouquet had been abbé here at the monastery just outside the village of Douai for almost ten years, and he had seen many men pass through its gates, some searching for peace, some absolution, and even some, such as in the case of their most recent arrival, both. The men dismounting in the courtyard now were searching for neither, their intentions dubious as they surveyed the stone structure of the monastery.

A thin man with short dark hair, receding at the temples and deep-set eyes, tossed the reins of his horse to one of the soldiers and slowly peeled off his gloves, glancing around the compound with obvious distaste. Fouquet placed a hand on Pietro’s arm, silencing the man before he could make any remarks that might cause their guests to take affront. With a simple glance to the farmer, he moved across the courtyard and nodded to the new arrival, a pleasant smile plastered on his face.

“Welcome, Monsieur,” he greeted in French. “You and your men are welcome to water your horses and rest for as long as you may need.”

The man – obviously an officer if his demeanor was any indication – scoffed at the remark, his thin upper lip curling in distaste. “I am Teniente Alonso de Guzman of his Majesty, King Phillip’s army,” the man replied in clipped Spanish. “Who is in charge here?”

Fouquet dipped his head in response. “I am Abbé Fouquet. What may we do for the King’s emissaries?”

Guzman sighed, snapping his gloves against his hand. “By order of the King, I am commandeering this post for service. You and your… men… may stay, we will be in need of service until the remainder of our forces arrive.”

“This is a place of God!”

Guzman’s eyes locked onto the face of a young monk, standing just to the side of the abbé, color rising in his cheeks, anger apparent in his eyes.

Fouquet moved quickly to block the man’s view of the novice, stepping between them and drawing the Spanish lieutenant’s attention. “My apologies, señor, the boy is still learning his place. But he is correct, this is a monastery, you cannot possibly mean –“

“I meant exactly what I said. This monastery is now under military rule. You will inform the peasants to return to the village. They will no longer be allowed inside the gates.” 

“How is this possible? Surely His Majesty –“

Guzman sighed and rounded on the abbé, raising his hand and slapping the older man with the glove. The sharp snap was loud in the silence and Fouquet blinked in surprise at the blow. It was not painful, but he could feel his cheek warm where the leather had met skin and it took all his strength to show no reaction to the soldier’s action. 

“His Majesty has ordered this garrison to be prepared for the arrival of the Spanish forces. You will abide by this decree or I will have you forcibly removed.” Guzman glared at the abbé, his eyes blazing, daring him to raise question again.

Fouquet nodded then turned, speaking to the novice monk who stood in shocked silence behind him. “Aaron, please go alert Brother René to our guests and see their quarters are made up.” He raised his brows, giving the novice a meaningful look, holding the young man’s gaze until the measure of his words registered.

“Um, yes,” Aaron mumbled. “Brother René.” Louder, he returned Fouquet’s gaze, letting the man know his meaning was clear. “Of course, Abbé. I will take care of it at once.”

Aaron scurried away as Fouquet turned back to the lieutenant. 

“If I may ask, this monastery has stood here for years, a bastion of sanctuary for men of all origins. Why would His Majesty have use of our humble home now?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Guzman’s eyes gleamed, his thin lips stretched into a grim smile. “War is coming. We have learned King Louis is mounting his forces with the intention of attacking Spain. His Majesty is finally ready to deliver the fatal blow to that simpering fool and we will be instrumental in that victory.” He leaned forward as if sharing a secret and Fouquet had to force himself not to recoil. “My command post here will be the most important post in Spain’s plan of battle. The French army will be moving south to attack and, as soon as the rest of the forces arrive here by boat, we will attack Paris from the north. It will be a glorious victory, Abbé, and you will be able to say you were right here in the thick of the action!”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aaron ran through the narrow corridor, dodging the other monks making their way outside to see what the commotion was about. As he approached the closed door at the end of the hallway, Aaron skidded to a stop, leaning against the cold, stone wall to regain his breath. He pounded on the wooden door, shuffling from one foot to the other as he waited for it to open.

As soon as the heavy door creaked open, Aaron pushed his way through, turning to find the dark, amused eyes of Brother René leveled directly at him.

The monastery’s newest arrival had kept to himself since making an appearance a month ago, spending most of his time either out in the stable with the horses or alone in his cell, praying. Fouquet had greeted him like a long lost friend, hugging him closely and making sure he was comfortable before leaving him to his own devices. The abbé had made no introductions or explanations, leaving the monks to wonder and whisper as to the identity of their recent addition. 

It hadn’t taken long for the rumor to circulate that the man was one of France’s finest soldiers, an elite Musketeer, and Aaron had found himself enthralled with the man’s every move, watching him from afar until he had been chastised by the abbé. But brother René had also noticed his attention and had taken the initiative to introduce himself.

Aramis.

That was the name he had given, though he’d quickly waved the admission away and substituted the name Abbé Fouquet had spoken previously. But Aaron had heard, and filed it away, recognizing the name even this far north. The happenings at the palace concerning the King’s new First Minister had made their way to the small village of Douai. Passing merchants and travelers coming from the French capital having been welcomed into the inn and taverns, repeating the stories they’d heard of the treacherous Comte De Rochefort and his attempt to usurp power in the name of Spain. The rumors of Rochefort’s accusations against the Queen -- a liaison with a Musketeer – had been met with disbelief. The name Aramis had been mentioned, and, if this was indeed the same Musketeer, Aaron couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps those accusations could hold a sliver of truth.

After all, elite soldiers did not simply resign and commit to a monastery without reason. Aaron had not been able to bring the rumors up to the man as of yet – still enamored by his charm, his confidence, his mere presence, to utter much of anything coherent other than inquire of his needs and ask of his comfort.

Aramis… Brother René… had seemed to find his veneration amusing and had made a point of engaging Aaron in conversation whenever the younger man approached. But now he stood, patiently, waiting for Aaron to explain his hasty appearance at his door.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Aaron gasped between breaths. “But there are soldiers in the courtyard. Spanish.”

The older man’s face changed abruptly, where there was an openness about him a moment before, a pinched darkness now replaced it and Aaron knew he was no longer in the presence of Brother René, but Aramis, the King’s Musketeer.

“Fouquet?” Aramis’ tone was clipped, demanding.

“He was there, in the courtyard, discussing the new produce prices with Monsieur Pietro –“

A shot rang out, echoing down the stone hall and Aramis rushed through the door, stopping at an opening in the wall a few arm lengths from his room. The window overlooked the courtyard and Aramis, at a glance, took in the situation, sensing the tension below. An officer had fired his pistol into the air, and the former Musketeer sighed in relief that no one had been injured. He felt Aaron come up beside him and pushed the young monk back into the shadows as he ducked to the other side, still able to see the entirety of the courtyard below.

There were more than a dozen soldiers, all dismounted, arranged around the courtyard. The gates were closed and no villagers could be seen. Aramis hoped that meant they had been forced out instead of hurt or killed and taken away by the soldiers.

Directly in front of the officer, Abbé Fouquet stood, impassive as always, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his cassock, his face turned toward the wall of the monastery. Aramis moved forward a step, catching Fouquet’s eye, silently asking the abbé how he wanted to proceed. A slight shake of the older man’s head was his answer.

Stepping back into the shadows, Aramis swore under his breath, his fists clenched, knowing there was little he could do. His pistol and sword were both in his room, carefully wrapped and hidden under his bunk, but he had given his old mentor his word they would stay hidden as long as he remained within the monastery. Though Fouquet could never have anticipated the need for protection – the man’s belief in God’s mercy sometimes overriding good judgment -- Aramis could not go back on his word. For now, he would stay out of sight as Fouquet had requested, watching, waiting, hoping the situation was not as dire as he believed.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I neglected to thank our wonderful beta Sharlot for all her hard work making this story come to life. She deserves a hearty pat on the back. :) Best beta ever. :)

Chapter 2

“Why Douai?”

Athos turned to d’Artagnan, his confusion at the Gascon’s question obvious on his face.

“I mean, why would Aramis travel all the way to Douai to retire?” d’Artagnan shrugged, frowning. “It’s not like there aren’t monasteries in France. Why would he choose one that is on Spanish soil, knowing how strained the relationship between France and Spain is right now?”

“He had no way of knowing Louis would declare war over Rochefort’s deceit,” Athos reminded him, but the question remained, and it was one he’d asked himself a time or two on their journey. 

They had been riding in the low lands for the last hour, wary of anyone who could wonder of their purpose. This part of Flanders had been under Spanish rule for quite some time, and although he knew the monastery at Douai was an old and respected one, he had no more idea of why their friend had specifically chosen it than d’Artagnan.

“It wasn’t the where that drove Aramis to Douai,” Porthos finally responded, “but the who.”

Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s twin looks of confusion elicited a rumbling chuckle from the bigger man. He shifted in his saddle, the long ride taking its toll on them all. They had removed their pauldrons as a precaution in case they happened upon anyone who may see fit to question the presence of three of France’s Musketeers riding north, directly into Spanish territory. Despite the vigor with which they had departed Paris to retrieve their brother, their need for caution had increased as they neared their destination and the vigilance had tempered their drive.

“The abbé at the monastery is a man named Fouquet,” Porthos explained. “He’s an old mentor of Aramis’. Someone he’s known since seminary school in his youth.”

“Aramis went to seminary school?” d’Artagnan’s voice betrayed his surprise.

“Apparently his parents wished him to be a priest,” Athos grinned. “He informed me of this fact when we were in the convent with the Queen.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “They got their wish.”

Smiling wistfully, Athos nodded. “But,” his face sobered, “was it for the right reasons?”

It was Porthos’ turn to look confused. “You know ‘Mis has always turned to religion when he needed guidance.”

“Yes, but I can’t help wonder if this time his decision was based more on penalty than need.”

“You think he went there to punish himself?”

Athos shrugged. “I believe he shoulders much of the blame for what happened. Had he not allowed himself to make the mistake of sleeping with the Queen, Rochefort would not have been able to use it against her.”

“Perhaps,” d’Artagnan argued. “But he can’t blame himself for what Rochefort did,” He shook his head. “The man was insane. That much was clear.”

“Aramis’ first instinct is to protect those he loves. Perhaps he felt the only way to do that was to make sure nothing like this could ever happen again.”

Porthos nodded, thoughtful. “That sounds like ‘im. If he’s not around, the Queen and the Dauphin remain safe from anyone who would think twice about Rochefort’s claims – including the King.”

They rode in silence for a while, each man contemplating the actions of their missing comrade.

It was d’Artagnan who finally broke the silence. “Even if Aramis does blame himself,” he said, trying to understand all that had transpired. “I thought becoming a monk was supposed to be something like a calling, not a punishment.”

“True,” Athos agreed. “But Aramis may not see it that way. To him, isolation from everything and everyone he has harmed is as much a salvation as it is penance.”

“But he hasn’t harmed anyone.”

Porthos laughed at the Gascon’s naiveté. “Good luck convincing him of that. All I know is we have to persuade him Paris – and everyone in it -- is better off with him than without him.”

“Is that all?” Athos mused. “Should be simple then, yes?”

“Didn’t say that,” Porthos scoffed, grinning. “But I can be pretty convincin’ when I set my mind to it.”

Athos returned the grin. “I’m counting on that, my friend.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The monastery walls butted high into the sky, the gates heavy and formidable – a fortress. Sitting half a lieue outside the village of Douai, it had once been a stronghold for the Spanish army, but had been abandoned by the military long ago, considered unnecessary and too costly to maintain given the relative peace in the region. Now, with war looming, Athos could see it for what it was; a citadel that would be able to withstand attack, a bastion of strength for whoever lurked behind its doors.

At least the monks had no need for such protection, theirs being more divine than begotten of man. 

He had not expected the gates to be closed, surprised when they approached to see no one about. He had visited few monasteries and had little knowledge of how they operated, but he had expected to find the gates open, villagers and monks alike combing the grounds in a companionable existence. But that was not the case.

Although they heard activity beyond the gates, there was no sign of welcome, and the hair on the back of Athos’ neck prickled, his senses alert, searching for the cause of his alarm. A quick glance to Porthos showed the other Musketeer wore the same guarded expression and they exchanged a nod, their soldier’s instincts instantly on alert.

They dismounted and Athos handed his reins to d’Artagnan who, though lacking the same experience as the others, had also sensed something amiss, and took them without a word. He approached the gate, noting the large, brass bell mounted on the side and rang it to announce their arrival. Moments later the door creaked open, and an older man clad in a monk’s cassock slid through the narrow crack.

He bowed without speaking, looking upon them with guarded curiosity.

Athos returned the bow, cordially. “We are seeking a friend who traveled here recently,” he intoned, unsure if the man even understood French considering they were so far beyond the border.

The monk smiled. “Many have come to us seeking refuge in God. Perhaps you could describe your friend?”

Athos looked back toward Porthos who smiled encouragingly.

“Aramis defies description,” he said dryly. “But I will endeavor to convey what I can.” He quickly gave the monk a physical description of the man, hoping his long, dark curls and well-kept beard would be enough to trigger the monk’s memory. He couldn’t believe the monastery welcomed many travelers in the last few months and was more than a bit wary of the monk’s reaction as he described their missing brother.

“No,” the monk shook his head, considering. “I don’t recall anyone fitting that description seeking solace here.”

“Perhaps we could speak to the Abbé Fouquet?” Porthos stepped forward, his concern written on his face.

“I am Fouquet,” the man tilted his head as he studied them. “Have we met before?”

Porthos shook his head. “No. But Aramis told me about you. Maybe you know him as –“

Before he could finish, Fouquet held up a hand. “I’m afraid I know not of this Aramis you speak of, but I will consult with Brother René. He may have information concerning the friend you seek.” The man shifted his eyes toward the jutting wall, raising his brows as if to convey something of importance.

Athos followed his gaze, surprised to see a man watching them from atop the tower in the corner of the wall.

“We would appreciate your efforts,” he said quickly, stilling Porthos’ protest with a hand on the larger man’s arm. “We will seek a room in the village for the night. If you or Brother René have any information regarding our friend, you may contact us there.”

Fouquet smiled, his expression one of relief as he turned and disappeared back through the gate. Athos heard the thud of a bolt securing it as soon as it closed.

He shook his head slightly as Porthos opened his mouth to speak, letting his eyes slide toward the tower and the man still watching them intently. Porthos, the experienced soldier that he was, caught the look and turned to follow Athos back to the horses, sneaking a glance at their observer himself.

“What was that all about?” d’Artagnan asked as he handed the reins back to Athos.

“I believe the monastery has been taken.”

“Taken? By whom?”

“Spanish most probably,” Porthos offered. “Fouquet knows Aramis, which means he probably knew exactly who we were. The only reason he’d deny it was if there was someone listening and he didn’t want them to know.”

Athos nodded as he stepped around his horse and mounted, adjusting his hat as he studied the man in the tower. “We are being watched. There is something not right. Fouquet was attempting to warn us before we gave ourselves away.”

“So what do we do now?” d’Artagnan asked as he, too, mounted his horse and turned toward the road. “We can’t just leave if Aramis is in trouble.”

“We will do exactly that,” Athos commanded. “Aramis knows where we’ll be. We must trust he will find a way to contact us.”

“And until then?” Porthos asked. 

“Until then,” Athos sighed. “We wait.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis watched his friends from behind the monastery walls and smiled. God forgive him but he was desperately glad to see them. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them until now.

No. That was a lie. He’d been denying the truth all this time. But they were here now, and while he didn’t yet know why, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. The thrill of seeing them again was like a balm to his soul. That was the truth of it, and while the knowledge filled an emptiness inside him, the reality of his need burned like ash in his mouth. 

So what then of his promise to God? He’d resigned his commission, left the family he had come to love, for what? Was his leaving for honor, or had he simply been trying to escape his own failings, his weaknesses, his life and the mess he’d made of it? The danger he’d presented to his brothers was something he could not bear to further, the manipulation of a situation he’d created to begin with when he’d slept with the Queen. What Rochefort had done had been the product of a sick and twisted mind, but had he not given the man the ammunition to use against them?

Aramis sank back into the cool shadows of the corridor, behind the thick stone, away from any chance of discovery and chastised himself a fool. Lowering his head he leaned into the solid wall and began to pray.

“Exactly what is it you pray for, Brother René?” 

The familiar voice beckoned him from his entreaty and Aramis turned. Fouquet stood, framed in the light from the window, hands buried in his cassock, kindness and a calm that Aramis had long admired, shining in his eyes. 

Aramis sighed, leaning into the wall for support. “I’m not sure I know anymore, Abbé.” He shook his head, weary, no longer able to meet the abbe’s searching gaze. “I thought I did, but now –”

“Come,” the abbé swung an arm out and beckoned him forward. “We should speak in private.” 

Understanding immediately, the Musketeer moved the few steps needed to reach the confines of his room and stepped inside. His thoughts eddied in a sea of confusion, guilt and joy, the latter leading back to the former in a constant circle of frustration.

The door closed, but Aramis did not yet have the courage to meet Fouquet’s eyes. “I came here to keep a promise.”

“Yes, that is what you told me when you first arrived.”

“But you don’t believe me?”

“It does not matter what I believe or do not believe. What matters is what you believe. If it is true that this is where you truly belong, then your heart will settle here as if it were the home you’d denied yourself all this time.”

Aramis closed his eyes, his mind picturing them, the only real family he’d ever known; Porthos, whom he’d trusted with his life so many times over, Athos who was like an older brother, and their newer member, d’Artagnan, who had made a place in his heart where he thought none existed. 

“And is it?” the abbé continued. “Is it the home you’d long denied yourself?”

Aramis looked beseechingly at his mentor. “I wanted it to be. I thought it could be… I thought God would help it to become so, but,” he ran a hand through his hair and began to pace, “I have prayed and prayed to him every day since coming here and He has not answered me.”

Fouquet nodded. “Perhaps He has, but you cannot hear Him.”

Aramis sighed, frustrated, his mind too clouded to understand the older man’s rhetoric. “Abbé...”

“Do you remember the day you arrived? We spoke long into the night about what transpired in Paris. You wept, we prayed and you begged me to let you take vows that night. Do you recall?” 

“You told me the time was not right.”

“I did. Do you know why?”

“I didn’t then and I don’t now,” Aramis retorted, petulantly, the sting of Fouquet’s refusal still strong.

The abbé tilted his head, one brow cocked, his smile knowing. “Don’t you? You aren’t ready for this kind of life, René. You’ve convinced yourself this is what you want, but when Spanish troops stormed through the gates today, what was your first thought?”

Aramis looked at his cot, his weapons and leathers carefully stowed beneath it. “To protect you and the other monks. To get my pistol and...”

“Your first inclination was to violence, to answer the call that beckons you to fight. But that is not all. There is still another, louder voice that calls you.”

Aramis nodded and lowered his head. “My friends.” He sighed, his heart at war with his head. He ran a hand through his hair, and leaned back against the wall, weary. “I had no idea God spoke in riddles.”

“Not riddles. Not if your heart is truly ready to hear. You just weren’t ready to listen before, but I think, perhaps, you may be now.”

Aramis nodded, his lips a tight line, and pushed away from the wall. “I cannot let the Spanish take this monastery, Abbé.”

“And I cannot condone violence, my son,” the Abbé responded. Aramis felt his resolve dim. “Instead, we will rejoice in praise of God for sending His guardian angels to protect us.” Fouquet grinned. It was the first actual grin Aramis had seen on the man in all the years he’d known him. 

Aramis wanted to return his mentor’s conviction but his mind was already at work, listing the steps to take next. He dropped to his knees next to his bed and carefully dug out the wrapped leather packet that contained his weapons and uniform, and laid them on the straw mattress.

Fouquet looked on. “Your friends said they would be staying at an inn in the village.”

Unrolling the leather cover, Aramis first picked up his pistol, his free hand caressing it almost lovingly. He grabbed a small oil coated cloth and began cleaning the barrel. “You told them I was here?”

Fouquet shrugged, the gesture odd on the normally stoic man. “Not in so many words, but I’m sure they perceived the implication.”

A timid knock at the door quelled his reply. Both men stilled. Aramis held up a hand in a gesture of silence to the abbé and rose quickly, eyes narrowed, his body suddenly tense. He palmed his main gauche, throwing his wool blanket over the other weapons to hide them from view. Curling the dagger into his hand at an angle that would allow for a quick strike, he slid the weapon into the sleeve of his cassock. 

Taking a deep breath, Aramis nodded to the abbé. Fouquet opened the door, both men relaxing marginally when they recognized Aaron on the threshold. The young novice stood wide-eyed, his face flushed, sweat beading his forehead as if he’d just come a great distance. Gaze shifting between the two men, his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. 

Aramis leaned out, eyes darting up and down the corridor, then grabbed the young monk by the collar and dragged him quickly inside. Fouquet closed the door quietly behind them.

Aaron looked from Aramis to Fouquet. “I know this was probably wrong of me but… but I followed them.”

Aramis glanced at Fouquet who shook his head, confused. “Who? Who did you follow?”

“The men from the gate who asked after you. They’re Musketeers, aren’t they?” Aaron’s eyes danced in eager delight. He was breathless, but Aramis recognized the excitement shining on his face. The Musketeer suspected the novice’s current search for air was as much due to the thrill of the risk as the distance he’d run. It was a dangerous expression for a monk surrounded by ill-mannered Spanish soldiers.

Aramis nodded. “Yes, they’re my friends, Aaron. Men from my regiment.”

Aaron beamed. “I knew it. I figured you’d want to know where they were staying and that they’d want you to know where you could find them, so I followed.”

Fouquet came forward and placed a hand on the novice’s shoulder. “That was a very dangerous thing to do, Aaron,” he intoned, his voice deep with reproach. “If you’d been discovered, you not only endangered yourself, but the men you followed would be at risk of inquiry.”

The young monk’s shoulders slumped, crestfallen. “I’m …. I’m sorry, Abbé. I just wanted to help. If Aramis…er…Brother Rene is in danger here, he-- I just thought it best he left with them. I didn’t mean--”

Aramis grabbed the young monk by the shoulders. “I know you meant well, but if something had happened to you… let’s just say I have enough guilt weighing on my mind.”

Aaron nodded. “I helped Pietro with his cart,” he grinned sheepishly, “well, that’s how it appeared. He just happened to be going in the same direction as your friends.”

Aramis smiled broadly, and chuckled, low and warm. “You remind me of another reckless young lad I have had the honor of knowing.”

“He’d have done the same thing?”

“Oh, most assuredly. Acting with minimum forethought to his own personal safety; that’s our d’Artagnan.” Aramis gaze sobered a bit. “But mind you, he had experience with swords long before he came to the Musketeers and even he was no match for trained soldiers. You are in no way to do anything remotely risky again. Do you understand?”

Aaron nodded, reproved. “I understand.”

Satisfied, Aramis turned, uncovered the weapons on his cot and picked up his pistol once more. “I must get word to my friends. They are blind to the danger they have walked into – a danger that is yet again my fault – and my leaving here is not an option.” He looked at Fouquet. “Even guardian angels need knowledge of what they would face.”

“You are only four men against a troop of soldiers...”

“Four Musketeers,” Aramis corrected. “You and the monks are in danger so long as the Spanish are here. It is our duty to protect you.”

“The situation is hardly in your favor.”

Aramis grinned, his hand scratching at his beard. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve faced worse odds.” He picked up his other pistol and began to rub it down. “Besides, this monastery gives the Spanish a tactical advantage. This close to France’s border they could march on Paris, and that is something I must not allow.”

“Even with my prayers and those of everyone here, the odds of your success are not high.”

“Odds…,” Aramis scoffed and began to load one of the pistols. “I never did much care for odds. Strategy is more to my liking, and one of the best strategists I know is outside these walls right now. I need to get word to him, and those odds may turn most favorably.”

“I know a way to contact your friends.”

Both men turned and looked at Aaron expectantly.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Porthos slammed his fist on the table and snarled at Athos. “I still don’t see why we don’t just go in there and get Aramis out!” 

Athos regarded Porthos coolly, returning his glare. “Because we have no way of knowing exactly how many Spanish soldiers are inside,” he responded, his voice level, calm. “It would most likely be suicide. You know this.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “It truly isn’t much of a rescue, Porthos, if we all die or get captured.” 

Porthos slumped in his chair. “So we what? Just sit here while Aramis is surrounded by–”

Mindful of their surroundings and the volume of Porthos’ comments, Athos held up a hand to silence him when another voice cut in.

“Gentlemen! Fresh ale, compliments of the house.” 

The barkeep lowered full tankards to the table and Athos twisted in his seat to meet the man’s strained, nervous smile. The portly man leaned in to speak in hushed, French tones. “A word to the wise, my friends, y’should perhaps keep your voices down a bit. There are those around loyal to King Philip and ‘ave been celebratin’ the comin’ of his troops.”

Athos nodded his understanding and took up the newly proffered tankard, lifting it in salute. “Your generosity speaks kindly of your establishment, good sir.” He took a large swallow, pleased to see d’Artagnan and Porthos, though begrudgingly at first, follow suit. “Does this establishment have rooms for rent?”

The barkeep nodded. “I have three rooms remainin’. Just come see me when you are ready for a bit more privacy.”

When the barkeep was out of range, Athos leaned across the table, pinning Porthos with his gaze. “While I understand that you have been friends with Aramis longest, do not presume to think for one moment that we do not share in the concern you feel for his safety.”

Porthos leaned in as well. “Well then act like it,” he gritted out. “If memory serves, you supported his leaving.”

Athos sighed, knowing his friend’s anger was born of concern, not resentment. “Because he wanted it.”

Porthos scoffed. “He didn’t know what he wanted.” He shook his head as he lowered the tankard to the table. “You didn’t even try to convince him to stay.”

“And do you honestly think any of us could have?”

D’Artagnan clasped Porthos on the shoulder, softening his tone. “None of us tried to talk him out of leaving because we knew none of us could. Aramis isn’t one easily dissuaded – especially when it comes to his beliefs.”

“Maybe.” Porthos looked down at his hands. “But now he’s alone in there. Surrounded by men who’d kill him outright if they knew his identity.”

Athos sat back in his chair. “We don’t even know if he is in there. The abbé –“

“The abbé was protectin’ him. That much was obvious.”  
Athos dipped his head in agreement. “Possibly…” At Porthos snort of derision he amended, “Probably.”

d’Artagnan shrugged and grinned at the darker musketeer. “Surely he’s capable of handling a few Spanish soldiers.” 

“He could at that,” Porthos chuckled reluctantly, running a hand across his eyes. He studied the younger musketeer a moment. “You know, whelp,” he began, his face losing some of its tension, “you’ve a good sense for your friends.”

D’Artagnan smiled, his cheeks coloring at the praise. “It’s easy when you’ve got good friends.” He swiveled his head to look at Athos, “But Porthos is right. We have to let him know he’s not alone.”

“Right,” Porthos sat up straighter, his gaze locked on their leader, more focused than he’d been earlier. “So how do we do that?”

Athos leaned across the table, ready to get to work. “First, we find out what we’re up against. In the short time the gate was open, I counted at least a dozen men but horses enough for far more.”

“The abbé seemed more than cautious,” Porthos pointed out, recalling their earlier encounter. 

“The whole village is on edge,” d’Artagnan scanned the tavern occupants. “Given we are on Spanish soil, however, we can’t exactly ask just anyone.”

“Actually,” Porthos cut in, his eyes locked on someone across the room, “that’s exactly what we do.” His companions followed his gaze. 

“The barkeep,” d’Artagnan supplied. 

From his place behind the bar, the keep stood smiling at a patron, pouring him a drink. He nodded his head good-naturedly at the man, the conversation animated and friendly.

Athos twisted in his seat and grinned. “Well, gentlemen, perhaps it’s time we asked our host for those rooms.” He stood and placed his hat on his head. 

The others stood with him and wove their way across the room, hailing the barkeep. He gave them a nod, and after disengaging from his conversation with the other patron, walked over to the Musketeers.

“You ready for those rooms?” he asked, wiping his hands on his apron. “I think I have the keys right here.” He bent and pulled a large metal box from behind the bar and opened it to dig around in the contents.

“How much?” Athos pulled his coin bag from his pocket. 

“How long will you be staying?”

Athos laid a gold coin on the bar, setting it next to the metal box and out of sight from the other customers in the room. The barkeep froze, his gaze shifting to stare at it. It was obviously more money than he’d seen in some time.

“That should cover our room and perhaps a little private conversation.”

The barkeeper stared at Athos. “Who-” his gaze shifted to Porthos then to d’Artagnan, “who are you?”

“That’s part of that ‘private’ conversation my friend mentioned,” Porthos smiled. 

The barkeep looked from the big man to the coin again. “That’s a lot of money for conversation.” The man swallowed and chewed on his lip. Quivering fingers hovered over the coin but did not dare touch it. He licked his lips, leaning in with a shaky whisper. “Are you French?”

Porthos nodded. “Perceptive.” He gave the man a wink and a grin. “I like that in a man.” His brows rose as he leaned across the bar and tilted his head. “Means he knows exactly what the word ‘private’ means.”

The man swallowed. “Right,” he cleared his throat and added loudly. “I’ll show you men to your rooms.” Slamming the metal box closed, he deftly palmed the coin as he scooped up the box and put it back under the bar. “This way, gents.”

Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan followed, single file, as they made their way up the stairs at the back of the tavern. Around the first corner, the barkeep opened the door, stepped inside the small room, and ushered them quickly through before closing the door and fairly collapsing against it.

“What do you want to know,” the man breathed out and turned to face his guests. “You’ve the look of soldiers… or assassins.”

“Assassins?” d’Artagnan chuckled as he turned to his friends. “We’ve been promoted!” 

Laying a hand on the guard of his schianova, Porthos shrugged. “Probably pays about the same.”

Athos noticed their host had gone deathly pale. If they weren’t careful, the man would collapse and die of fright here in front of them. They definitely did not need that kind of attention.

“Pardon my companions, monsieur,” he bowed slightly. “It has been a very long journey and to arrive only to find the residents of Douai scattering about like frightened rabbits has been, well, a bit disconcerting.”

d’Artagnan pressed his left hand over his heart and bowed in turn. “Apologies. To whom do we have the pleasure of addressing?”

The barkeep seemed to relax a little at that. “I am Nicolas.” He looked back at Athos. “What do you want to know?” His wedged his hand into his pocket, no doubt fingering the gold coin he’d been paid.

“First I would like assurance that what you hear will go no further. Do we have your word?” 

Nicolas nodded and lifted his chin as if insulted. “I am a Frenchman, monsieur.”

“On Spanish soil,” Porthos noted.

The barkeep looked at the dark skinned man. “Through no fault of our own. Flanders has not always been under Spanish rule. We live in peace here, Spanish, French and Dutch alike. We want only to survive.”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan added, “and you all seem to be behaving as if your survival is in question.”

Athos nodded. “Now, what has everyone here, the monks in particular, frightened of their own shadows?”

“Yesterday, a large regiment of Spanish soldiers arrived and took over the monastery.”

The Musketeers shared a quick glance before Athos pressed. “Any idea how many?”

“Don’t rightly know, but it was dozens,” Nicolas shrugged. “Never saw ‘em myself, just know what I’ve heard.” He leaned, his face suddenly tight and angry. “Someone said the commander of the group nearly killed the abbé, those… animals,” he spat. “He’s a man of God. They cannot do that!” 

d’Artagnan patted him on the shoulder in an attempt to calm him. “Might be best to keep your voice down. I don’t imagine these walls to be overly thick…”

Nicolas nodded, face coloring in embarrassment. “I know, which is why I gave you three the only rooms on this side of the building. They’re isolated from the others.”

Porthos grinned. “Told you I liked this man.”

Athos paced the room, deep in thought, any mutual admiration for the man buried under the weight of his newly ordained command. His silence persisted longer than Porthos could stand. 

“So when do we go in and get Aramis out of there?”

Nicolas arched a brow, confused. “Aramis?”

d’Artagnan answered. “A friend of ours, one of us. He arrived at the monastery a few weeks ago to stay with the monks.”

The barkeep paused, his eyes wandering the ceiling. “I recall seeing a new man among them as of late. Didn’t think he was a monk, though. Wore all the right clothes and all but didn’t carry himself like them.” 

Porthos nodded. “That would be Aramis.”

“And what exactly are you,” Nicolas added, “if you don’t mind my asking?” His gaze traveled over each of the men in the room. “You’re soldiers, I can tell as much, but I know little about the military--”

“I’m d’Artagnan, this is Porthos and our captain, Athos. We are of the King’s Musketeers,” the young Gascon provided the introductions.

Nicolas’ mouth gaped. “Musketeers…” Closing his mouth, he swallowed clearly in awe. “Them I’ve heard of. And you mean to tell me there’s one of you, in there, around all of them?” He thumbed over his shoulder. “In there?” He crossed himself. “God help him. It’d be like living in a hornet’s nest.”

Athos rushed in to break up their conversation. “Monsieur, thank you for your forthright honesty, but it is time for you to go back to your patrons and for me and my friends to talk privately.” He placed a hand on Nicolas’ shoulder and guided him to the door.

Caught off guard, the barkeep stuttered. “I… oh, okay.”

Opening the door, Athos pushed the man gently through the threshold. “I trust the reminder I gave you was sufficient, and that you’ll keep what was said here to yourself?”

Nicolas patted his pocket happily. “Oh yes, quite so. I am French after all.”

Athos’ lips curved into a patient smile. “Then I could think of no one more deserving. Good night, monsieur.” The Musketeer closed the door behind him, walked over to the bed and scooped up his hat. He nodded at d’Artagnan. “Come, you and I are heading back to Paris.”

It was the Gascon’s turn to sputter. “Wh-why? But I thought we---”

“Are leaving. Yes. Get your cloak.” He turned to Porthos and sighed, resigned. “I won’t even bother to ask you to leave. Stay here, keep an eye on the monastery, and if you can find a way to get word to or from Aramis, see what information you can gather.”

Porthos widened his stance as if ready for a fight. “If I see a chance to get him out of there, I’m taking it,” he said with a hint of warning.

Athos nodded solemnly. Leaving Porthos behind wasn’t just the right call – it was the only call. The man would not leave Aramis knowing the danger he faced. That the marksman was behind those walls alone only made it worse. While Athos trusted Porthos not to behave irrationally, he knew how difficult it was for him not to know what was transpiring behind those walls. If anything should happen to Aramis and Porthos got wind of it…

“Just remember,” Athos cautioned, placing a hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “Aramis is quite capable. He’ll be fine so long as the Spanish remain unaware of his true identity.”

Porthos nodded, his grim face full of unspoken words. He knew the risks, risks they all took willingly

“I don’t get it,” d’Artagnan flapped an arm out to his side, clutching his cloak in his other hand. “Why are we leaving?”

Athos sighed. He took a breath. The boy’s inquisitive nature was part of what made him so promising, but it tended to rear its head at inopportune times.

“The monastery has military significance,” he explained patiently. “Built for war before it was given to God. If the Spanish create a stronghold in the north, they can establish a depot, outfit troops, run supplies. And if Spain decides to send troops to attack from the north…”

“They’ll have us on two fronts,” d’Artagnan concluded, his voice tense but understanding.

“Exactly. It would leave Paris vulnerable. You and I will return, alert Treville and the King of this development. When they understand the significance of the monastery, they will allow us to return with a full regiment to counter this strategy.” 

Athos had little doubt Treville would understand the threat. He only hoped they could convince the King of the importance of confronting this danger before committing the bulk of their military forces to the south.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos leaned against the side of the stable, arms crossed on his chest as he watched his friends disappear around a bend in the road. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing he should return to Paris with them, but unable to abandon Aramis now that they understood the danger he was in.

Alone with his thoughts, he made his way back to the tavern, ready to spend a miserable day waiting and worrying. Despite Athos’ reminder that Aramis was more than capable of taking care of himself, Porthos couldn’t help but feel anxious for his friend. The marksman was clever, adroit and downright lethal when necessary, but he was vastly outnumbered, and if the Spanish troops discovered his true identity… he wasn’t ashamed to admit it; he was terrified for his friend. 

“Monsieur?” 

Porthos turned toward the timid voice, his eyes falling on one of the villagers as he tentatively approached from the road. The gaunt man gripped a narrow tether attached to the harness of a mule. “Are you called Porthos?” he asked in a thick, Dutch accent.   
“I am,” the Musketeer answered, hands on his hips, ready for trouble though he doubted that if it came, this man would not be the deliverer.

A trembling hand reached forward, a piece of parchment held out for him to take. “I do this for the monks.” 

Porthos took the parchment and unrolled it, smiling instantly as he recognized the familiar, flowery scrawl. The sight of Aramis’ handwriting alone filled him with relief and joy… he could practically hear his friend's voice in each word.

'My brother, I cannot tell you how good it feels to know you are near.  
As you may have surmised, the monastery has been taken by Spanish troops.  
There are over two dozen men at my count. I must remain here in order  
to ascertain their true purpose and protect the monks as much as I am able.  
I know you will understand. If you have not already done so, send word to Paris.  
I fear there are more troops to come. I will convey any information  
through Pietro. You can trust him.

Your humble friend –A'

Smiling for the first time in weeks, he looked over the paper at the man – Pietro – standing patiently nearby. “Will you be here for a while?” 

The man nodded, smiling knowingly. “I need to rest my mule.” He stroked the animal’s head gently. “She is weary.”

“I’ll be right back.” Porthos vaulted up the stairs to the tavern to borrow quill and ink from the barkeep – or coal if need be – to send a reply to Aramis.

A musketeer in a hornet’s nest, indeed. It was still to be seen who would be the one stung.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Aramis was restless. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, wondering about his friends, trying not to worry for their safety. He knew the people of the village would welcome them – there were plenty of French citizens as well as Spanish and Dutch, but few were Musketeers and few were sworn enemies of Spain. He had no doubt they would keep a low profile, knowing they had been wise enough to remove their pauldrons and anything else that would identify them as King Louis’ personal guard before they arrived at the monastery. He knew his comrades were seasoned soldiers, but time and distance had made him uneasy and he longed to see them again, if only to know they were all right.

Unable to sleep, he had made his way to the stables, feeding and grooming the horses, trying not to notice the array of weapons attached to the harnesses hanging on the walls. The soldiers had kept their swords and pistols with them despite Fouquet’s protests, but they’d left behind muskets and daggers, unable to carry so much armament on their persons. As the sun peaked above the horizon, sending soft rays of light through the open doorway of the stable, Aramis became aware of the stirring of activity in the courtyard. Stepping out into the red dawn, he smiled as he recognized Aaron scurrying toward him. The lad looked around as if guilty of some crime, and Aramis shook his head, reminding himself to teach the young monk how to be a bit more inconspicuous in his cunning.

He waited in the doorway, carefully hidden from direct view of the monastery. He didn’t believe he was in any more danger than any of the other monks, but he’d learned the hard way never to underestimate an enemy. He’d made the mistake of underestimating Rochefort, and it had nearly been the end for them all.

“Brother Aaron,” he greeted warmly as the young novice hurried into the stable. “I assume you have word?”

Aaron smiled, nodding vigorously. “Your message was delivered,” he said. “Pietro was given a missive to return to you.” He dug a wrinkled parchment from his Cossack and handed it to Aramis, a proud glint shining in his eyes.

“Well done, my friend,” Aramis praised, accepting the note, holding it reverently in his hand. “Did Pietro speak to my friends?”

“He spoke to the one named Porthos.” Aaron grinned. “He said your description made him impossible to mistake.”

Aramis laughed. “Porthos is quite distinguishable,” he admitted fondly. “For more than his size alone.”

He took a quick glance toward the monastery and, deeming it safe, unfolded the parchment, holding it up to the emerging light.

It is good to hear from you, my brother. A day has not gone by that you are not missed. We understand the situation and have taken steps. I will remain in the village if you have need of me. Try not to do anything stupid. - P

Aramis chuckled. Porthos knew him far too well. 

“Your friends will help?”

“Of course,” Aramis grinned. “They are my brothers. They would not abandon me even though I have made it quite difficult for them to keep me in line.”

“What are we going to do?”

Aramis folded the parchment and tucked it away into his belt. He wrapped his arm around Aaron’s shoulders and began to steer the young man back toward the monastery. “For now, we will wait. We will listen and gain all the information we can. My friends have gone for help and when they return, we must be prepared.”

“For what?” Aaron asked innocently, although the excitement of the unknown shone clearly in his voice.

“For anything and everything, my young friend. Let us see to our Spanish guests. I’m sure they would enjoy a hearty breakfast, don’t you think?”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The refectory was bustling with loud voices and the clanging of plates and bowls when Aramis and Aaron entered. It was a far cry from the normal quietness of the staid monks, who ate without raising their voices above a murmur on most occasions. Aramis found the vociferousness of the soldiers in contrast quite unsettling, having grown used to the tranquility and peacefulness with which the monks approached their day-to-day customs and responsibilities. Even the Musketeers at the garrison had been more subdued and refined than this lot, a fact Aramis was more than thankful for.

Fouquet was busy assigning tasks and motioned the new arrivals over, his face a mask of calm but his eyes flashing displeasure.

“Aaron, could you make sure the Lieutenant’s table has enough wine?”

When the young novice had moved to carry out the request, Fouquet latched on to Aramis’ arm and pulled the younger man into the far corner of the room. “You should not be here,” he chided. “We should not tempt fate.”

Aramis smiled. “Would it not be more suspicious for me to hide away?” At his mentor’s nod of acceptance, Aramis placed his hand on Fouquet’s arm and squeezed. “Do not worry. As far as they are concerned, I’m simply another monk at their service.”

A clang of metal on stone echoed through the chamber and all eyes moved to the main table where Guzman stood, glowering at Aaron. The young novice was staring at the floor where the pitcher of wine lay on its side, its contents spilling across the flagstones like blood.

“You imbecile!” Guzman exploded, kicking the pitcher and sending it clattering across the floor. He pointed to the small red stain on the front of his formerly immaculate uniform. “How dare you! You have ruined it! I will have you punished for your insolence!”

The Spanish officer raised his hand to strike and before Fouquet could intervene, Aramis stepped forward, catching Guzman’s arm, staying his swing.

“It was merely an accident, monsieur.”

“Unhand me you French dog!” Guzman yanked his arm from Aramis’ grip and the Musketeer stepped back, bowing his head deferentially. 

“My apologies. I sought only to restore peace. I intended no disrespect.”

Guzman glared at him, but Aramis held his gaze, unflinching.

The man before him showed no sign of fear, and Guzman’s eyes narrowed, moving in so close they breathed the same air. Aramis did not yield. 

“You are no monk,” Guzman accused. 

The entire room hushed as the two men faced off. They stood chest-to-chest, shoulders rigid, fists clenched. Finally Aramis lowered his gaze and stepped back. 

“I am but a weary soul seeking enlightenment in the house of God,” Aramis stepped in front of Aaron, picked up another pitcher from the table and poured the wine into the Lieutenant’s goblet. “I have not yet mastered the ways of peaceful existence, but I am striving to do so.”

Guzman chuckled, but his eyes still held suspicion. “I believe you have much work to do.” The tension continued to radiate from the man as he reclaimed his seat, leaning an arm on the table.

Aramis dipped his head in acknowledgement and backed away, aware of Guzman’s eyes tracking him as he moved back toward Fouquet.

“Simply another monk at their service?” Fouquet intoned, his brows arched. 

Aramis tilted his head as he shrugged in response. “I was cautioned against stupidity,” he admitted. “Unfortunately, I have never been much good at doing what I was bade.”

“So you truly haven’t changed much since Seminary.”

Aramis handed the empty pitcher to the abbé. “Perhaps I would be more useful tending the horses.”

“Perhaps,” Fouquet didn’t bother to hide his sigh of relief. “Perhaps it is a task that can take quite some time.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The stables were a wonderful place to listen to gossip. As soldiers moved in and out, saddling their mounts and talking among themselves, Aramis was able to glean quite a bit of information about the true intent of the troops’ visit to the monastery. They were merely a forward company, here to secure the fortress, awaiting the real soldiers who would lead an attack on French soil when and if the opportunity presented. It was apparent the soldiers either didn’t consider Aramis a threat – his cassock identifying him as nothing more than a peaceful man of God – or they didn’t realize he could speak Spanish. A few had given him the once over before returning to their duties, ignoring him and going about their business as if he wasn’t there.

If they presumed he could not understand their conversations, all the better. The more he learned about their strategy without drawing suspicion, the safer his friends – and his country – would be.

“Guzman is all talk,” one of the soldiers scoffed as he tightened the cinch on his saddle. “As soon as the rest of the army arrives, he will be nothing more than an errand boy for the real officers. As if they would allow him to actually command this post.”

His companion snorted a laugh. “From what I heard, he’s only an officer because his family paid for his commission. He’s never even seen a battle before let alone fought in one.”

The first soldier led his horse toward the doorway. “Let’s hope the other regiments arrive before the French get wind of our plans. If we are to establish a supply depot here, we will need to keep the roads to the bay open.”

So that was their plan. To bring the troops and supplies in through the Black Sea to ports near Bruges or perhaps even Antwerp in order to ready a force to attack France from the north. Having finally signed a treaty with England, Spain already had its formidable navy positioned off the coast, ready and waiting for the word to set sail for France. Without warning, Paris would be vulnerable, its walls breached, its people conquered.

Aramis could not let that happen. He knew his comrades had an inkling of the threat – Porthos’ message had indicated they were already taking steps to counter the troops’ presence – but they needed to know the specifics. If the ships carrying the Spanish forces arrived before they could mount a defense… he needed to warn his friends.

Since Porthos had remained behind, he assumed Athos had returned to Paris to gather reinforcements, but they had no idea of the scope of Spain’s campaign in the north. If they allowed the Spanish to establish their stronghold, it would be nearly impossible to hold them back. They would march on Paris and if caught unaware, the city would fall. He could not trust this kind of information to a missive, he would have to deliver it in person.

The idea of seeing Porthos again made him anxious. He knew the man had been upset and caught unaware by his abrupt departure and he wanted – needed – to explain his decision. He never wanted his friend to think he was not valued, and not taking a moment to assure him they would always be brothers no matter the distance or circumstances was something he’d regretted since his arrival. It had weighed heavy on his mind and in his heart. Perhaps that regret was part of what Fouquet could sense in him.

After all that had happened, would they still be able to trust in him? It was his mistakes, his failings that had nearly gotten them all killed. Rochefort may have been responsible for twisting everything to his advantage, but it was Aramis’ weakness that had given him the opportunity and means. He remembered Porthos’ reaction when he’d confessed to sleeping with the Queen. The big man had been quick to anger, but that heat had quickly cooled to comfort. He hadn’t hidden his disappointment, and that alone had shown Aramis how far he had strained their friendship. The time apart had not quelled the guilt that burned in his stomach. Perhaps his friend’s disappointment had not abated either.

Despite their conflicts, Aramis was confident Porthos would do what needed to be done – he was too good of a soldier not to notice the potential threat the Spanish army posed – but he couldn’t help but be apprehensive as to his reception. After everything that had happened, would Porthos still trust him enough to fight beside him? Would any of them?

It wasn’t Porthos’ character he was calling into question, it was his own judgment that had to be examined. Would Porthos find him unworthy of his continued loyalty? Aramis could hardly blame him if he did. His unfortunate acts had not only threatened the Queen, the Dauphin, the entire stability of France, but had forced a wedged between them, causing them to examine their own loyalties to those they had sworn to serve.

It would be quite easy to blame everything that had happened on Rochefort and his insane belief in the Queen’s affections, but Aramis had to admit to his own culpability in the whole royal mess. If he had stopped to consider the consequences that night in the convent…

But then, nothing had seemed to matter other than desperately trying to feel… something. That something had grown into love, and it was that love that had nearly destroyed them all. Perhaps his brothers had found it in their hearts to forgive him, but he would not make that assumption, knowing how difficult he had made these last few months for them all.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he realized he was once again alone inside the stables. He quickly finished brushing the horses and replaced the tools in their proper places. He would find Aaron and have him send a message to Porthos asking him to meet. Where and when he had no idea – but he suspected his young friend could help with that.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“There are tunnels beneath the monastery?” It amused Aramis the young novice would know more about the old fortress than the older monks.

Aaron shrugged, embarrassed. “I did a lot of exploring when I first came here,” he admitted. “I was… lonely, and I found it difficult to sleep. Besides, the monastery is quite mysterious in the dark of night.”

“I can only imagine,” Aramis responded. “These tunnels, would they allow me access to the village?”

“It is a bit of a walk, but yes. The tunnel comes out on the bluff near the lake. It is about half an hour’s journey from there, perhaps more if you don’t know your way in the dark.”

Aramis nodded. “The moon should be full enough to guide me. Would Pietro be able to get a message to Porthos?”

“Of course,” Aaron agreed. “Would you like company?”

“I believe it would be safer for you to remain inside the monastery,” Aramis told him, his tone apologetic as Aaron’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Do not fret, my young friend. I have an assignment of the utmost importance for you.”

Aaron’s face lit up immediately. “Anything! What would you have me do?”

Aramis stepped closer and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It is imperative we discover where Guzman is storing his munitions. I witnessed them unloading some barrels of gunpowder earlier. There were some muskets in the stables but they have been moved. If we can find them, we can render them useless and make it that much easier for the French soldiers to remove the Spanish threat.”

Aaron nodded eagerly. “I understand. I will find where they are being kept and –“

“And you will do nothing but come to me with the location,” Aramis interrupted. “Promise me you will not try to handle this on your own.”

“I promise.” Aaron frowned. “What about Abbé Fouquet?”

“I’ll handled Fouquet, you just stay out of sight and listen. Do you understand?” 

When Aaron nodded, Aramis thumped him once on the shoulder, satisfied. He hated to involve the young novice, but they were running out of time and he had no other option. “Good. Have Pietro make the arrangements. It’s time we took the situation into our own hands.”

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Athos irritably massaged his sore neck as they made their way through the city. Beside him, d’Artagnan had fared the journey no better, slumped in the saddle, rubbing at his bleary eyes. They’d ridden without rest or food, the entire way back to Paris, and neither of them had the patience or political tact for two impudent and reticent red guards who barred their way from entering the minister’s war room.

“I said, move aside,” Athos fairly growled, hand on the hilt of his sword. Porthos would’ve been proud of his attempt at intimidation.

The guard swallowed, squared his shoulders and attempted to regain his advantage. “I have orders that no one is to—”

“The Captain said, stand aside.”

Athos and d’Artagnan turned as one. The Queen stood at the entrance of the long hall, straight, eyes sharp, mouth drawn into a tight line. With everyone’s attention on her, she glanced quickly at Athos then locked her eyes on the guard as she strode confidently forward. Athos and d’Artagnan parted and bowed as she walked past, sharing a glance of triumph in the process. While half the guard’s height, what she lacked in stature, she more than made up for in confidence and poise.

She stopped only an arm’s length from the guard, her chin raised, expectantly. “Do you dare defy the Queen as well as the Captain of His Majesty’s Musketeers, monsieur?” Her voice held a touch of reproach, but her countenance remained calm and collected. She expected to be obeyed, and had no doubt of the soldier’s ultimate acquiescence.

The guard had his back pressed against the door, head back, obviously torn between obeying the orders he’d been given or bowing to Anne’s composed will.

Athos could hear voices from the other side of the door, easily recognizing France’s new War Minister, Treville despite the muffling effects of the ornate wood. King Louis was also in attendance, no doubt deep in the planning stage of their attack on Spain. They had apparently left orders not to be disturbed, Athos surmised -- by anyone – but sincerely doubted the order included the Queen.

“N-n-no, Majesty.” The guard swallowed loud enough that Athos had to dip his head to hide a grin.

She arched a delicate brow and smiled. “Then please step aside and allow us to pass.”

She never raised her voice, but the guard jumped to do her bidding. As he fumbled for the handle to the door, Anne glanced at Athos, and he nodded his thanks. As he bowed, allowing her to precede them into the room, he heard d’Artagnan’s soft snicker from behind and rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother to chastise the younger man.

At the abrupt interruption, Treville slammed a hand onto the desk he was hunched over. “What is the meaning of this?” Seeing the Queen, the Minister immediately recanted. “Your Majesty,” he offered, bowing. “My apologies, I did not know—”

“No apology necessary, Minister.” She held her head high as she swept into the room and stopped before Louis, only to bow before him. “Sire, two of your most trusted Musketeers have come with word of vital importance. They seek audience with you and your Minister of War.”

Louis’ eyes slid past her to the entry where Athos and d’Artagnan waited, then to his Minister of War. “What do you know of this?”

Treville narrowed his eyes at his soldiers. “Only that I sent these two, along with another to seek out one of our men who recently resigned his commission. As we are about to go to war, I felt it prudent to have all of my best men involved.”

Louis nodded curtly. “Ah yes, the one who was wrongly treated in that whole incident with Rochefort. What was his name…?”

“Aramis,” the Queen quickly supplied. “He… saved my life more than once.” She added at Treville’s sharp glance. “As well as the life of our son. I shall scarce forget his name for all my days.”

“Yes, of course.” Louis smiled at his wife, his gaze softening. “Oh my dear, this must be horrifying for you to relive.” He reached out and took her hands. “Why don’t you see to our son while I finish speaking with these men?”

It was not a question but a suggestion wrapped in nothing short of an order, the unspoken reminder that this was men’s work and not suitable conversation for a woman, hung in the air. Athos noticed the flush rise on the Queen’s cheeks, her eyes desperate to remain, longing for word of Aramis.

A cold dread swept over the Musketeer and a quick glance to Treville showed the man had seen it, too. Anne’s face exposed her vulnerability where the Musketeer was concerned, revealing far more than was safe. Although Louis believed all Rochefort’s claims to be lies, the Queen was tempting fate to let the truth speak so clearly in her eyes. Athos cleared his throat, catching her eye for a brief moment. She immediately shuttered her need.

Schooling her expression, Anne bowed regally. “Of course, Sire.” With a flicker of an emotion Athos couldn’t precisely read, she glided past him and out of the room.

Louis turned to Athos and d’Artagnan. “Well, don’t just stand there, come, come,” he said motioning them in with one hand. “What is it you have to say?”

Athos let loose a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and strode forcefully into the room. Every second they wasted was precious time that should be spent mounting their forces and riding to Douai. Waiting on the affairs of politics and royal society to come to terms with shifts in events, was excruciating at times. He prayed this would not be one of them.

“Your Majesty,” he bowed. “We were in Douai searching for our friend. He’d taken up residence in Flanders, and we meant to persuade him to return with us, as Capt—Minister Treville mentioned.”

“Flanders,” Louis studied the large map spread out on the table they’d been using to plot their strategy. “That is north and controlled by Spain, is it not?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Treville, Athos and d’Artagnan all gathered around the table.

“And Aramis fled to…. Spain?” The King looked curiously at Treville, then to Athos. “Care to explain?”

Athos bristled at the implication that Aramis was anything but a loyal compatriot of France. “It is the abbé at the monastery there he sought, not so much the location. Aramis mentored under him when he was a boy, and the two kept in touch from that time. He went there only because this man was familiar to him. As Your Majesty pointed out weeks ago, Aramis is a loyal soldier of France.”

Treville joined Athos. “I knew of his retirement to Douai prior to sending my men, sire. If I’d had any doubts about Aramis’ allegiance, I would not have done so.”

The King nodded. “Very well,” he turned to Athos. “What was it you found then?”

“We found the monastery had been taken by a small contingent of Spanish forces, a precursor, I believe, to a larger agenda, though we do not know the full scope of their plans as of yet. We have an advantage in that Aramis is not only still inside, but to my knowledge, they do not know his identity.”

Treville nodded, staring at the map, his tactician’s mind making the connections easily. “It makes sense, and I am sorry I did not think it sooner,” He leaned against the table and pointed at the coast not far from Douai. “Part of the Spanish fleet is already positioned in the bay due to their conflict with England.” He traced his finger up the coast of France to the northern inlet near Belgium. “If those ships come to port here, they can create a supply line to the monastery and there, set up a base camp for more troops.” He turned his attention to the King. “If memory serves, that monastery was built for war decades ago and would be a formidable structure, also large enough to house a great deal of men preparing for attack.”

“Attack…” Louis frowned, studying the map. “Surely you do not mean—”

“That they plan to hit us from the north?” Treville stood, his face grim. “I believe that is exactly what they intend.”

Louis’ face showed his concern. “We cannot sustain a war on two fronts. We do not have enough resources. It would be our downfall.”

Athos cleared his throat. “If we stop them in Douai, we would not have to.” All eyes turned to him. “There is only a small contingent of men there now, though too large for us to contain on our own. Give me a company, we’ll ride back and rout them out. If we can take the monastery, their troops will have no place to quarter and we would have the advantage.”

“What of Aramis?” Treville asked. “Were you able to make contact with him before you left?”

“No sir, but the abbé would have made him aware of our arrival, I’m certain of it, and I left Porthos there in case he was able to reach out. If I know Aramis, he is already plotting what can be done to thwart their plans from the inside. It is an advantage they will not be expecting.”

Louis looked to Treville for confirmation and the older man nodded his agreement. “It’s a good plan, sire. If you are in accord, with Athos in command, I’ll see to the plans.”

More settled than when they’d arrived, Louis held his head high and nodded. Athos had no idea when it had happened, perhaps the incident with Rochefort had been the catalyst, or Treville’s calm, intelligent guidance, or both, but the King seemed more at ease with himself and confident with his decisions.

“See to it, Minister,” Louis commanded.

Treville, Athos and d’Artagnan bowed and the three of them exited the room.

“You said a small contingent,” Treville began as they strode down the hall. “Any idea of numbers?”

“None,” Athos said from his right. “I saw more than a dozen horses and four carts when we first arrived to inquire about Aramis, but nothing more. I’m hoping that upon our return, we’ll have more definite information.”

Treville looked at Athos. “You think Aramis will be able to get word to us?”

Athos nodded. “Aramis is resourceful and devious when warranted; he’ll find a way.”

“If not,” d’Artagnan added. “Porthos will tear that place down stone by stone to get to him.”

One side of Treville’s face curved in a small, fond smile. “Of that I have no doubt.”

“Either way, we will succeed,” d’Artagnan reiterated.

At the exit of another, larger room, the older man stopped and faced them, his eyes scanning the men, carefully. “You two appear as if you could use a good meal and some sleep.”

D’Artagnan drew himself up, though his eyes were clearly lined with fatigue. “We’ll be ready to ride when the regiment is.”

Treville smirked. “I’ve no doubt of it and I wouldn’t suggest you stay behind. But it will be a few hours before they are ready to disembark. I can take care of those arrangements, it hasn't been that long since I was in your shoes,” he nodded at Athos. “You two get a meal, fresh clothes and rest for as long as you can. Meet in the Garrison courtyard in three hours.”

Both of them muttered their gratitude as Treville stalked toward the exit that would see him to the newly established garrison command post where he would send out orders to form the company for deployment. As soon as the Minister was out of sight, their shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

“You think Porthos and Aramis have gotten into any trouble yet?” d’Artagnan broke the silence as they made their way to the portico surrounding the Louvre.

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose. “There is little point to worrying about things we can do nothing about.” He shot an annoyed look at the younger man. “But I assume either one or both of them have by now.”

D’Artagnan chuckled.

“A moment, Messieurs.”

Both Musketeers came to a halt and turned toward a smaller room to their left. The Queen stood at the entrance, her expression a mixture of concern and authority. She took a small step forward, but a hand pressed her back and Constance stepped into their line of sight.

“Don’t just stand there staring, come in here before we’re seen.” Constance’s whisper carried down the portico.

D’Artagnan smiled, immediately gathering Constance up in to his arms and holding her tight. Madame D’Artagnan’s delight at seeing her new husband was apparent in her barely contained squeal of delight. After a moment, they composed themselves, remembering they were not alone.

“It’s good to see you, Athos,” she smiled at him, blushing. “I assume you found Aramis?”

Athos nodded, returning her smile, before shifting his attention to the Queen. “We believe he is well,” he assured them both.

Anne’s relief was obvious. “Captain,” she began hesitantly. “I wonder if I may have but a moment of your time. Please.”

Athos sighed. He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell her they were in a hurry. There was not a moment to spare, but the petition in her wide blue eyes made it impossible to deny her. The small fact that she was also the Queen made it rather difficult to refuse.

He felt sympathy for her, an emotion that surprised him. He’d been angry when he’d found them, disappointed in his friend and fearful of the repercussions. When Rochefort had found out, a dread had filled him, knowing Aramis’ mistake would come back to haunt him. His anger and disappointment at their lack of judgment had filtered over to the Queen, though Athos had done his best to keep it hidden. While Aramis had never once allowed anyone to impugn the Queen’s reputation, Athos was under no delusion their clandestine relationship had been anything but consensual; her decisions just as condemning as Aramis’ had been. Maybe more so.

“Your majesty,” he bowed stiffly before her, wanting to be anywhere but in this room. “I am yours to command.”

“Thank you.” She offered a tight smile, her eyes moving to Constance who nodded back to her. “Surely it would be alright if Constance and d’Artagnan were to have a moment alone while we speak?”

Athos gaze cut to d’Artagnan. The younger man was obviously eager to spend what time he could with his bride, but his eyes told Athos he would stay if needed. Deciding this was a conversation best done in privacy, he nodded to the Gascon. “Go.”

D’Artagnan’s head tilted, hesitant, silently asking if he was sure. At a second nod from Athos, he held out a hand to Constance and they stepped back through the door and out of sight.

Athos took a deep breath and turned back to the Queen, resigned to his fate.

Picking nervously at her fingers, she seemed hesitant. “Constance told me about Aramis retiring to Douai weeks ago. It saddened me but I know it was probably for the best, and yet—”

Athos held in a groan. He’d been right, it was a conversation he’d neither the time nor the inclination to have. He understood the Queen’s concern – though he’d be much happier if the whole mess could be forgotten. He shifted on his feet impatiently. His exhaustion and frustration were making him impertinent and he cringed at his own audacity. He was not as angry with her or Aramis as he was with himself – wasting time blaming them both for something neither of them had done out of anything other than the need to feel something other than fear or pain.

_“If Rochefort’s advances to the Queen are treason, what does that make yours?”_

_“Love.”_

_“I’m sure the King will appreciate the difference.”_

Athos guilt flared at the memory of his friend’s look of contrition when he’d once again thrown Aramis’ actions in his face. He forced his emotions down, knowing now was not the time for anything other than the mission that lay ahead. He was a soldier, not a diplomat. There would, hopefully, be time to deal with the recrimination when they returned.

“Captain?” The Queen broke into his thoughts. “Are you all right?”

Athos forced himself to focus on the woman before him. Anne frowned, suddenly unsure of herself. It was a vulnerability he’d only seen once from her – when Rochefort had attacked her in her apartment – and he loathed to be the cause of it now.

“My apologies, Your Majesty.” He softened his voice. “I have ridden straight through from Douai and am feeling the effects of the journey. I beg your forgiveness for my poor manners.”

She smiled, forgiving. “No apologies necessary, Captain. I understand your haste.” She began pacing a moment then stopped suddenly and faced him. “It is Aramis you go to help?”

Athos nodded. “In a manner of speaking.” He hesitated telling her more but offered, “In truth, it is he who will be helping us.”

Anne nodded, a small smile on her lips. “So he is well…” her face showed relief as she looked away. “That is good to hear.”

Athos shifted anxiously, an inner voice shouting at him to be patient and she must have seen it because made to apologize again. “I’m sorry, I know I have no right to ask of him—”

“I believe Aramis would disagree.”

“It is for my son…” she paused, dropping her head before once again meeting his eyes. “I know it is still dangerous for either of us to think of each other, but…”

“May I speak honestly with you?”

“Please.” She nodded, and Athos began searching for the right words, trying desperately to measure them in a way that would allow him to make his point, and possibly keep his head.

“What happened between you and Aramis is in the past. It can never be. He paid a terrible price for his choices and the burden of guilt was nearly his undoing. It drove him from us and that was bad enough for us, but for him, it was much more.”

Seeing her distress, Athos moved closer and softened his voice. “I am not the romantic Aramis is, so I can see it clearer from my vantage point. You love each other, that is not in question. I don’t condone it, but I can understand it. If we manage to survive this war, and if we are able to persuade him to come back to Paris and take up his pauldron once more, you must release him. I know your son – if you truly believe him to be Aramis’ – will always connect the two of you, but I beg of you, if there seems to be a private moment where you two can share a word, a kiss, a touch. Don’t. He will always long for you until he understands he cannot have you.”

“I would never—”

“Not intentionally, no. But he is vulnerable simply because of who he is and how deeply he feels, and it would take very little in the way of encouragement from you. Then he- you would both be drawn back into a situation that is, and it pains me to say this, hopeless.” He took her hand, knowing it was bold. But the woman before him now was not the Queen of France but a sad, young woman in pain. She did not pull away, grasping the offered comfort firmly in return. “I’m sorry,” he continued. “But you must let him go. It is the only way either of you will be able to survive.”

“It is not fair….” She said, her voice barely above a whisper, her lowered eyes shining with tears. There was no desperation in the words, just a quiet acknowledgement.

Athos sympathized. His chest tightened as her pain found footing in his heart, but he swallowed it down, released her hand and stepped back. He needed to turn his focus to getting Aramis back alive. They could worry about the rest later. “Life and love rarely are,” he offered. “If it makes you feel any better, I know Aramis feels the same.”

Turning to leave he stopped at the door and looked back over his shoulder, noting the tears falling from her eyes. He bowed. “By your leave…”

“Yes, Captain.” She wiped at the tears. “God speed and… keep him safe.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The village stables were quiet and unattended as per Aramis message, making it a perfect meeting place for the two men. Anxious to see his friend and fearful of the danger the meeting presented him, Porthos paced the wooden enclosure, hands opening and closing into fists before relaxing again.

Since receiving Aramis message requesting they meet at midnight, the day had become interminable. He’d abstained from his usual vice of cards, choosing instead to roam the village, seeing what he could gather in reconnaissance. He’d learned quite a bit.

While the recently arrived Spanish force was not a large one, Porthos had catalogued the faces of the soldiers he’d seen who’d been allowed to venture out amongst the villagers throughout the course of the day. He’d next made himself comfortable near the gate leading to the monastery and watched soldiers come and go. Athos had been right. There were at least two dozen soldiers, and he reluctantly had to admit that attempting to bring Aramis out themselves would’ve resulted in disaster.

Grinding the fist of his right hand into the palm of his left, Porthos chafed at the need for patience. It was not his strong suit, especially when the life of one of his brothers was at stake.

“You know if you’re not careful, you’ll wear a trench into the floor.”

Porthos spun, hand on the hilt of his sword. A familiar figure stood in the shadows, little more than a silhouette in the gloom of the dimly lit stable. Admittedly he’d been lost in thought but he’d felt certain the few animals stabled here would have alerted him to someone else entering the structure.

When his heart stopped thundering long enough for his mind to register the voice, Porthos smiled. “Aramis…” he breathed out.

Aramis stepped forward into the light, pulling back the hood from over his head and letting it settle around his neck. The marksman quickly crossed the distance between them, mirroring his friend’s welcome smile. “Porthos…” he raised his hands, outstretched to receive his friend. “It’s so good to s—”

Porthos grabbed the smaller man up in a hard embrace. Overcome, he squeezed tighter, unaware of the rush of air exhaling from the Aramis’ lungs, deaf to the sound of his wheezing breaths, numb to his flailing hands as he began smacking him on the back.

“P-Porthos.” Aramis gasped. “Can-can’t breathe, m- fr’nd.”

Eyes wide, Porthos quickly released the smaller man and stepped back, chagrinned. He watched Aramis gulp air into deprived lungs, offering a small smile only to pale alarmingly and begin to crumple. Porthos just managed to grab him about the shoulders before he could collapse completely.

After a moment, Aramis’ face returned to a more natural color. “I’m all right,” he said, patting his friend on the arm, reassuring. “Well, I was before I got the breath squeezed out of me.”

There was no malice in the words but Porthos colored all the same. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled, patting his friend on the shoulder.

“I forgot how enthusiastic you can be,” Aramis coughed. “Though it’s always nice to be missed.”

Porthos nodded, taking in the sight of him. He’d no idea he’d react in such a manner. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things he wanted to say, the largest looming like an anvil in his heart: Will you come back with us?

But it was a question, like all the others, that there was no time for yet, out of place within the context of this meeting. And if he were honest with himself, it was an answer he was not sure he was prepared to hear. For the first time since leaving Paris, since discovering they’d be going to war, he wasn’t sure of Aramis’ answer. In truth, part of him wanted his friend to stay here, be safe, but the other part of him, the more selfish side of him, wanted Aramis by his side or covering his back, fighting. Together.

Finding his voice once more, Porthos broke the silence, his eyes shining in the low lamplight. “It’s good to see ya, ‘Mis.”

“I’m glad to see you too, my friend. More than you know.”

Porthos nodded and squeezed the marksman’s shoulder, noting the feel of bone beneath his grasp. “Hey…” he mumbled and quickly began measuring his friends’ shoulders and arms with both hands, squeezing the muscle beneath the cassock.

“Porthos, what—”

The dark skinned Musketeer spun him about, worked his hands across Aramis’ shoulders before spinning him face front and thumping him on the chest. “You’re skinny,” he grumbled, glowering menacingly. “No wonder you all but collapsed. Don’t they feed you in this place? Are you eating? You should—”

“I’m the mother hen, here, not you,” Aramis stepped out of his reach. “I’m fine.” He laughed, self-conscious. “We’re fed better here than at the Garrison. The farmers and villagers love to bring us food. All the time.”

“It only counts if you’re actually eatin’ it.”

Aramis studied his friend’s face for the first time, his eyes suddenly dancing. “What of you, eh? You not only hug like a bear, but you look like one.” He rubbed at his own chin before pointing at Porthos’ face full of whiskers. “Have all the razors in Paris suddenly disappeared?”

Porthos chuckled and rubbed his hand over his full beard. “Not much time for grooming with all this going on. Besides,” he reached out and behind Aramis to flip the knotted leather at the nape of his neck and the hair gathered within. “You’re one to talk. I don’t recall seeing any monks with this much hair.”

Aramis pushed his hand away, making the big man chuckle.

“So how is your old mentor, Fouquet?” Porthos asked.

Aramis eyes widened in surprise. “You remember his name. I’m impressed.”

Porthos shrugged matter-of-factly. “You told me stories about him. I could tell he was important to you.”

Nodding, Aramis’ gaze warmed. “And you always care about what your friends care about. You are a better friend than I deserve.”

The dark skinned musketeer’s brow furrowed. “If everyone got what they deserved all the time, there’d be few people left in the world, I suspect. Myself included.”

Aramis huffed. “I doubt that.”

“And just who decides what you deserve, eh?” He narrowed his gaze at his friend. “I thought you told me that it was God’s choice, not yours or mine.”

Aramis smiled. “I’ve known men who were learned and foolish. I’ve known men who were smart but cruel. You, my friend, are far wiser and big hearted than all of them combined. I am truly fortunate to call you friend.”

Porthos nodded and did not shrink from the compliment, determined to make Aramis see his own worth in kind. “Same applies here, too.”

Porthos desperately wished for more time, but knew that, as much as he didn’t want Aramis to return to the monastery, the marksman would insist, regardless of any objections. To protect his true motives, he had to hasten their meeting.

“So, you know about the war?”

Aramis face grew somber as he nodded. “I suspected as much when the soldiers arrived, and more so when I overheard them the other day in the monastery stables.” He grinned. “They are free with their conversation when I am invisible. I’m sure it hasn’t dawned on them some Frenchman do understand Spanish.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, my friend.”

Aramis grinned, devious and dark. “It’s a game I’m rather good at, if you recall.”

This was the Aramis he knew. That dangerous, drawn to the thrill of the fight, the Aramis of old, the man Porthos’d gone into battle with countless times; sure of himself, confident. The man he hadn’t seen since the King announced the Queen’s pregnancy a year ago. Perhaps this was the man who would return with them. He certainly hoped so.

Porthos smiled grimly. “You are,” he agreed.

Aramis looked around. “Where are Athos and d’Artagnan?”

“They returned to Paris to tell the new Minister of War about the situation here.”

“Minister of War?” Aramis canted his head curiously.

Porthos grinned. “Treville.”

“Ah,” Aramis returned his grin. “There could be no better choice.”

“And Athos is Captain of the Musketeers now.”

Aramis nodded, pride welling up within him. “I was telling the abbé the other day that the best tactician I knew was in this village. Glad to see I was right.”

“And d’Artagnan finally made an honest woman out of that girl of his.”

“Married?”

Porthos bobbed his eyebrows in answer. Aramis’ grin stretched into a blinding smile. “I’m sorry I missed that but I am no less overjoyed at the news.”

“Once the King and Treville know about what’s going on here, they’ll return in a day or two with reinforcements.”

“Well then,” Aramis nodded and paced over to the door and gazed up at the waning moon. They both knew it was high time for him to get back. “I had best impart what I’ve learned thus far to make their trip worthwhile.” He rubbed his hands together, his voice taking on an excited tenor. “Three dozen Spanish soldiers rode in day before yesterday. They arrived with four wagons of munitions, shot, powder, wadding and muskets.”

Porthos nodded. “That’s a lot of powder and shot for that many men.”

“Indeed. They are digging in for a much larger force to arrive here within a fortnight. They plan to set the monastery up as a key supply depot and tactical outpost in their plan to attack Paris.”

Porthos face paled. “Athos was right.”

“I assumed he’d figure it out.” Aramis mused.

“Well then, that settles it. You get back in there, get your things and meet me back here on the ‘morrow. When Athos and the reinforcements arrive, we’ll fight them together.”

Aramis shook his head. “That I cannot do, mon ami.”

“What--” Porthos sputtered and glowered at his friend, dread tying his heart in a knot at the prospect of Aramis caught behind enemy lines. “Why not?”

Aramis grinned and it was a devilish sight. “I plan to learn where the Spanish store their munitions within the monastery walls. Once I do, I’ll break in and soak their powder and sabotage the muskets, rendering it all useless, hopefully before Athos returns with reinforcements.”

Porthos chuckled. “Now that sounds like the Aramis I know.”

“With luck, when the battle begins, their ability to return fire will be seriously impaired. With dry powder, better fire power, and the more skilled swordsmen of the Musketeers, the fight should end quickly with little loss of life on either side.”

Porthos studied his friend. “Little loss of life… that matters to you, huh?”

“Whatever the monastery was in her past, she is hallowed ground now,” Aramis offered, his voice taking a reverent tack. “The abbé desires as little blood shed and death within her walls as possible. I gave him my word I would do all I can to avoid it.”

Porthos’ brow furrowed. He hated all of this. He still wanted Aramis out now. “Fine. You get in, muck up their stores, then you grab your things and get out of there. Meet back here, and once Athos and the men arrive, we fight them together when the battle starts.”

Aramis smiled fondly, and Porthos had a sinking feeling he wasn’t going to like his friend’s response.

“No, Porthos,” Aramis shook his head slowly. “If I cannot get to their munitions before the battle, or even if I do, either way I am uniquely positioned to do more harm on the inside than out here with all of you.”

“You’re also in a unique position to get yourself killed,” Porthos grumbled.

“I assure you, that is not my intention.” Aramis placed a staying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I seek only to protect the monks, for they will do nothing to save themselves.” He patted the larger man on the chest. “And if I can help my old friends, so much the better.”

Porthos’ gaze dropped to the floor. He was still uncomfortable with Aramis behind those walls, but the marksman’s words made sense and deep down he knew Athos would approve. “Still…” he argued against tactical wisdom, “I’d rather have you protecting my back when things get heated.”

As always, Aramis saw through the words. “I appreciate your concern, mon ami. Once the battle starts, I will have your back. I can tilt things in our favor if they should take a turn otherwise. Have faith.” He clapped a hand to Porthos’ back.

Meeting Aramis’ eyes directly, he nodded. “I have faith,” he offered sincerely. “I have faith in my friends, in my brothers. In you.”

“Faith…” Aramis repeated, his voice a hushed whisper. “In me…” he paused, tentative. “That is more than I have a right to. If indeed it’s true, then trust me with this.”

The pleading echoed with both resignation and hope. The moment stretched between them, Porthos still uncertain where they stood when this was all over. There were too many questions unasked, and one very important answer unsaid. Fears neither confirmed nor denied. Aramis’ deep brown eyes implored and the larger man found he could not deny him.

“Fine,” Porthos finally sighed. “We do this your way.”

“Thank you,” he responded sincerely. He crossed to the stable door and looked out carefully before glancing back at Porthos. “If I have any more news to relay, I’ll send word.”

Porthos noted Aramis’ restless energy; he was about to leave. He watched him adjust his cassock. “Right.” There was nothing he could say; nothing to make the man he loved like a brother reconsider. He knew it, though it pained him to admit it.

Hood in his hands, Aramis stopped short of pulling it over his head, locking eyes with Porthos as he stood by the door. “It truly is good to see you my friend.”

It sounded like good-bye, too full of finality for Porthos’ liking. He strode purposefully to his friend and wrapped his arms around him. The hug was brief, not a goodbye, but a reminder of what awaited his return. He would hold out hope until there was none left, until they drew final breath and not a moment before.

Stepping back he nodded at the marksman. “Good seeing you.”

A crooked smile tilted one side of Aramis’ lips as he pulled the hood over his head. As he made to step out, Porthos grabbed his arm. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” he growled.

Aramis only smiled and slipped out the door, disappearing into the night.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Aramis returned to an overly excited Aaron, who latched onto his robe and dragged him back through the tunnel and up to his room. Once the door was closed, the novice turned, his exhilaration apparent on his smiling face.

“We’ve found it!”

Aramis shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “Exactly what have you found, my young friend?”

“We’ve found where the soldiers are storing their munitions.”

Aramis was pleased, amused at the young man’s delight in his adventure. “You didn’t do anything but observe, did you?”

Aaron shook his head. “No. I did exactly as you instructed. Merely watched and waited. I saw them taking some of the barrels of gunpowder into a room just below the chapter hall. I didn’t have a chance to see inside, but I assume the rest of the weapons they brought with them are also being stored there.”

“Well done, Aaron,” Aramis clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, giving him a smile. “You have the makings of a fine Musketeer.”

Aaron beamed.

“We will need a few more men to aid us in our endeavor. Do you know of any of the other monks we could trust?”

“Perhaps Abbé Fouquet would –“

“No,” Aramis interrupted. He held up a hand, firm, resolute. “Fouquet understands that I must do what I can to stop the Spanish plans from coming to fruition, but I cannot involve him directly. He would not condone any sort of violence, though I am unsure it can be avoided… at least not altogether.”

“You don’t plan to attack the soldiers here inside the monastery?” Aaron asked, wide-eyed.

Aramis shrugged. “Only if I have no other choice. I plan to sabotage their weapons, render their powder useless. My friends have already sent for reinforcements. They will hopefully be here before the Spanish troops can get a foothold in the area. If they have no means to defend themselves, Athos can surprise them and force them to surrender the monastery without incident. I just pray our interference will be enough to swing the situation to the Musketeer’s favor.”

“There are a few monks who have made it known they do not approve of what is happening. I can speak with them, find out if any are willing to help us.”

“Do it,” Aramis nodded. “But be careful not to tip our hand. If there is one thing I have learned in my years as a soldier, you can trust no one except those who have bled alongside you.”

“These are good men, Aramis.”

The Musketeer chose to ignore the younger man’s use of his nom de guerre. “I’m sure they are. But even good men are subject to failings of judgment.” His eyes darkened, taking on a glint of regret. “Trust me, I know this first hand. I do not want such a failing to be your undoing.”

“I’ll be careful, you have my word.” Aaron’s tone was reverent, and Aramis couldn’t help but smile at his sincerity.

“Good,” he took a deep breath and ran a hand across his chin. “Speak to your friends in the morning. Tomorrow evening will be soon enough to put our plan into action.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The torch flickered against the stone, soft footsteps echoing in the dark hallway. It was well past sunset, the monastery filled with a hushed solitude. The monks were in their cells, faithfully reciting their evening prayers, no doubt asking God for his embrace and possibly insight into his plan for their immediate future. The soldiers, fed and drowsy from the monks’ fine brandy, had either gone to man their posts or retired to their rooms to catch up on sleep. It was a peaceful time inside the walls and Aramis had no intention of disturbing that serenity.

Aaron carried the torch, holding it high to light the dark passage. Aramis hands held a pitcher of brandy, his pistol and main gauche tucked safely in the folds of his robe. Two other monks followed, keeping a discreet distance from the pair, carefully hidden in the shadows, their sandals nearly silent on the flagstones.

As they approached the two soldiers guarding the unobtrusive looking door near the end of the hallway, Aaron stepped forward, plastering an innocent smile on his youthful face.

“Greetings,” he called in stuttered Spanish. “We have brought refreshments at the request of Lieutenant Guzman.” Aramis held up the bottle he carried, as Aaron displayed two goblets grasped in his other hand.

The guards smiled, pleased to see their evening wouldn’t be as boring as they had believed. As one stepped forward to take the goblets from the young monk, Aramis shifted around him and slammed the heavy bottle into the other guard’s head, dropping him to the stones beneath. Quickly and quietly, with a grace that left the young monk in awe, Aramis ducked the second guard’s swing and grabbed the man’s outstretched arm, swinging him around and slamming him into the opposite wall. The guard bounced back, staring at the Musketeer for a beat before his eyes rolled to the back of his head, his knees folded and he crumpled to the floor.

Aaron brought the torch closer, leaning over the second guard, shaking his head in wonder. “I’ve never seen anyone move that fast.” He looked up at Aramis, who shrugged and dropped to his knees, his hands threading through the first guard’s doublet. With a grunt of satisfaction, he held up a set of keys, his eyes dancing in the flickering torchlight.

“Are they dead?” The two monks who had been following them approached, seeing the guards unmoving on the ground.

“Merely taking a convenient nap,” the Musketeer responded absently. He rose and stepped across his victim’s still form, slid the key into the lock and opened the heavy wood door. Taking the torch from Aaron, he stepped into the room, his eyes taking in the racks of weapons and barrels he assumed were filled with gunpowder. He stepped forward as the other three crowded into the packed room, dragging the unconscious guards behind them.

“Does the abbé know about all this?” Aaron scanned the room, his eyes wide as he surveyed the contents of the makeshift armory.

Aramis nodded. “Unfortunately, there is not a lot he can do about it. But we can.” He glanced from one man to the next, his eyes finally landing on Aaron. “Do you remember what I taught you?”

The young novice nodded, the others following suit. Instead of their normal hours of prayer that day, the three monks had assembled in Aramis’ room while he had instructed them on the best way to disable a Spanish flintlock musket. Once the flint was removed, the frizzen had nothing to strike against it to cause a spark, rendering the weapon useless. With a silent nod from Aramis, Aaron and one of the monks set about disabling the rows of muskets against the far wall. 

Aramis dashed from the room, returning a moment later rolling a large barrel from further down the hallway. Cracking open the top of the barrel, he dipped one of the goblets inside, handing the other to his accomplice. Filling the goblet with water from the barrel, he moved to the stocks of smaller barrels against the opposite walls, removed a peg from its plughole and poured the water inside. After a few goblets full of the liquid he replaced the plug and gave the smaller barrel a shake.

Pleased with the sounds of sloshing emanating from the barrel, he nodded to the other monk who copied his actions, starting with the powder barrels on the other end of the stack. It took them the better part of an hour to disable all the weapons and soak the barrels of gunpowder, but when they had replaced the plug on the final barrel, they stepped back and sighed in relief.

“A fine job, my brothers. I thank you for all you have done.” A moan from one of the guards caught the attention of the assembled men. “You must leave here now,” Aramis continued, hastily herding the three monks from the room. “If you are caught here, it could mean trouble for the abbe´.”

“And what of you?” Aaron asked, stepping out into the dark hallway and taking the torch from Aramis.

“I will be right behind you,” he assured the young novice as the lad turned to follow the others. Aramis fumbled for the key he had hooked to his belt, but before he could step through the threshold and pull the door closed, a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back into the room. A single blow came from the darkness, then he felt nothing at all.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

He came to with a shock, sputtering as cold water splashed against his face and chest. Breathing in reflexively, he coughed out the water that was dragged into his lungs, his body automatically trying to curl into itself for protection. His effort was thwarted by the bindings holding his wrists and ankles tightly behind his back.

As soon as he could breathe, he shook the water from his eyes, his head pounding in protest at the sudden movement. Taking stock of his surroundings, Aramis realized he was lying on the cold flagstones of the refectory, water dripping from his exposed skin. He shivered. His robe had been removed, leaving him clothed in nothing but his braies, his chest pressed into a puddle on the floor.

“Good. You are awake.”

Guzman’s stilted attempt at French would have been laughable, if the situation had been the least bit humorous.

Aramis rolled to his side, letting his head fall to the stones floor beneath him. “You need to work on that,” he said in Spanish.

Guzman, surprised to be addressed in his own language, squatted down beside the Musketeer. “What shall I work on?”

“Your French is atrocious.”

“But your Spanish is quite good.”

Aramis chuckled. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“So I see.” Guzman stood, his arms behind his back, his head angled, studying the man at his feet. “I must wonder. What is a man who does not flinch in the face of danger, who knows how to disable weaponry, doing hiding in a monastery?”

Aramis closed his eyes and sighed. “The same as anyone else. Looking for answers.” His squeezed his eyes tightly, trying to ebb the pulse of pain that was emanating from his jaw. He opened his mouth once, twice, trying to assess the damage.

“And what would be the questions to those answers?” Guzman began to pace the length of Aramis body, never moving more than a step away.

“The usual,” the Musketeer quipped. “Meaning of life, man’s place in the grand scheme of things, why the sky is blue –“

A swift kick to his torso stopped him mid sentence and he choked off the rest of his soliloquy. 

“I am not playing games with you, señor. I would have had you killed without thought, but you have tickled my curiosity. I want to know who you are and what you are doing here.”

Aramis attempted to curl in on himself, his face twisted in pain as he fought for breath. “I’m just a penitent man trying to find his way back to God,” he finally managed to mumble between gasps. Another kick had him twisting against the floor.

He moaned, trying desperately to draw in air. With his hands and feet behind him, he couldn’t get enough movement to expand his lungs and he fought the grayness that was creeping into the edges of his vision. 

“Lieutenant, please.”

Aramis cracked his eyes open at the familiar voice, surprised to see Fouquet step into his line of sight. The abbé looked at him with regret, before turning again to address the Spanish officer.

“This man is troubled, I grant you that. But he need not be your enemy.”

Guzman rounded on the abbé, fisting his hands into the cloth of Fouquet’s robe. “This troubled man has destroyed my weapons. Rendered our gunpowder useless. He has single handedly weakened our position and I will not stand for it!” He pushed the abbé back, and Aramis flinched as the older man stumbled, falling to his knees. “Get him up!” 

Guzman’s order was instantly obeyed. The ropes holding Aramis’ ankles and wrists together was cut, and he was pulled to his feet, strong hands gripping his biceps painfully as his knees refused to support him. A hand grabbed at his hair, yanking his head back as Guzman stepped into his space, his face close enough for Aramis to smell the brandy on his breath.

“I will not ask again. Who are you?”

“Brother René,” Aramis responded calmly. Despite the strained position of his head, he held Guzman’s gaze, refusing to flinch under the officer’s cold stare.

The punch to his side came as a surprise, the Musketeer unable to prepare himself for the attack.

“Who are you?” Guzman repeated.

If Guzman thought he could intimidate him, the man was sadly mistaken. He had survived Savoy. He had survived Rochefort’s attempts to break him. There was no way he would fall to a Spanish buffoon who couldn’t even muster the respect of his own men.

“Brother René,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a child.

The backhand to the face he saw coming, but the hand fisted in his hair made it impossible to avoid. He tasted the coppery tang of blood in his mouth and spit, red saliva landing on Guzman’s shirt.

“Your uniform is becoming quite a mess,” he grinned, steeling himself for the man’s angry response.

He didn’t have long to wait. Guzman’s fist connected again with his ribs and he felt more than heard one crack. He wasn’t sure if it was broken, but the pain flaring in his side made the question a moot point at best. The next blow struck him in the stomach and he bent forward, but the hands on his arms tightened, yanking him back to a standing position.

Groaning, he managed to open his eyes to catch the livid fury reddening Guzman’s face. Unable to stop a grin from stretching his bleeding lips at the Spaniard’s reaction, he chuckled, ignoring the spark of pain the action triggered. “You shouldn’t ask questions you won’t like the answers to.” The warning was lost on the officer who was no longer thinking rationally, his anger taking control of his better judgment.

Keeping Guzman’s ire focused on him kept Aaron and the other monks safe, but Aramis momentarily reconsidered his strategy when the officer reached behind his back and pulled a shiny dagger from its sheath. He held it next to the marksman’s eye and pressed the point into the soft skin beneath it.

Aramis smiled, sensing the man had not the stomach, nor the courage to follow through with his silent threat.

Apparently Fouquet wasn’t as sure.

“Please, Lieutenant. I beg of you. This man is no threat to you. I will make sure he causes you no more trouble. Please, this is a place of God. Do not do this.”

Guzman’s eyes never shifted from Aramis’, but the Musketeer felt a shiver of relief when the officer acquiesced to the abbé’s request.

“I have no intention of killing him at the moment.” He flicked the point of the dagger, drawing blood from a small cut at the base of Aramis left eye. “I have plans for him.” He stepped back, raising his chin, as he stared down the defiant Musketeer. “He will die, but not easily. Take him and lock him up. Perhaps a few days without food or water will make him more cooperative.”

Despite the pain radiating through his body, Aramis attempted to shake off the hands holding him and was rewarded with a hard crack to the back of his head.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Fouquet’s breath hitched as he watched Aramis go limp in the grasp of the Spanish soldiers. He regretted his inability to stop Guzman from torturing his old friend, and was dismayed that the Musketeer had taunted the officer so. He’d understood his need to protect his accomplices had motivated him to act so brashly, but Fouquet had feared for Aramis’ life when the Spanish commander had pressed the dagger to his cheek.

Aramis hadn’t even flinched, which had enraged the officer even more. Fouquet was certain he would be presenting Aramis’ dead body to his friends when they returned, but thanked God for intervening and saving the reckless fool despite his own stupidity. The Musketeer’s reaction to Guzman’s threats might be considered courageous by some, but to Fouquet, they were foolhardy. It was the same type of behavior that had plagued the young man back in seminary school. It was how Fouquet had known, no matter his parents’ wishes, René would never be the type of man able to give himself over completely to God.

He had never backed down from a challenge, be it physical, mental or emotional. When his beloved Isabelle had fallen pregnant then disappeared, Fouquet had not been surprised René had left to search for her. When he had learned the young man had become a soldier – one of the King’s Musketeers of all things – he knew it was where he belonged.

Although Fouquet would never condone violence or death, he knew it was sometimes a necessity and the world needed men like René – Aramis – to keep the worst of human nature at bay.

At Guzman’s order, the Musketeer was dragged from the hall and into the dark cloister walk, toward the stairs to the lower level. With Guzman’s attention on his bloodstained shirt, Fouquet hurried out the door, nearly running into Aaron as he stepped through the threshold.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing such a look of rage on the young man’s face. His eyes blazed in the light of the torch he held before shifting toward the unconscious form of Aramis being dragged toward the stairs at the far end of the walkway.

“You should have helped him,” was all the novice said before turning on his heel and stalking away.

Fouquet sighed. “He knew full well what he was doing.”

Fouquet started down the hallway, passing the young man who stopped to stare at him in shock. “They beat him half to death! You should have done something, anything to stop it!”

“And just what would you have me do?” Fouquet stopped abruptly, facing off against the younger man, his face pinched, his voice hard. “He is a soldier,” he whispered, aware of how voices could carry within the narrow walkway. “He knew what would happen if he was caught. Just be thankful he was the only one. It was God’s will to spare you. Do not make his sacrifice meaningless.”

Aaron huffed in response. “God would never will this! Not the God I serve!”

“Keep your voice down!” Fouquet grabbed the younger man’s arm and squeezed it tightly, pushing him back forcefully to the wall. “Do not undo what he has done for you. As long as Guzman is focused on Brother René, his interest in whoever helped him is not at the forefront of his thoughts. Do nothing to alter this fact.” He waited until Aaron nodded, then stepped back, running a shaking hand down his face. “I will see to Brother René. You must remain out of sight until the Lieutenant has calmed.”

Again Aaron nodded, his shoulders slumped as he accepted the abbé’s directive.

With a hesitant pat to the younger man’s shoulder, Fouquet continued down the walkway, praying he could find a way to ease his old friend’s pain.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 

“It’s about time you two got back here,” Porthos grumbled as he stepped out from behind a tree. He’d been splitting his time between the road and the village, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the soldiers, hoping to spot Aramis in the courtyard of the monastery. “What took you so long?”

Athos shared a meaningful look with d’Artagnan and dismounted. “Outfitting and organizing nearly one-third of the company took some time.”

“That’s what… almost fifty men?” Porthos gasped in surprise.

d’Artagnan grinned. “We rode ahead to let you know.”

“That’s better than I’d hoped for.” 

“Given what we assumed the Spanish have in mind, it took little convincing for the King to see the necessity of such a force.” Athos squinted questioningly at the dark skinned man. Porthos was obviously pleased with their success, but something was gnawing at him, and Athos had little trouble discerning what it was.

d’Artagnan caught it too. “They’re setting up at the encampment we scouted on our way back. Athos figures we’ll attack at pre-dawn.”

“No.” Porthos shook his head, his eyes staring of into the distance. “That’ll be too late.” He huffed a breath through his nose, and shook his head, agitated. “I’ve got a bad feelin’.” He stomped off a few paces, turning back when Athos shot a hand out to stop him, resting it on his chest.

Athos canted his head to one side. “You know something...”

The dark skinned Musketeer acknowledged. “You were right,” he growled. “They plan to use the monastery as a fortress, a means to supply troops to attack Paris.” 

D’Artagnan let out a low whistle. “That was Treville’s assessment, too. You’re sure?”

Porthos nodded but it was Athos who put it together. “You got word from Aramis.”

“More than that, I talked to him.”

“How?” the Gascon asked excitedly. He looked around. “Where is he?”

“Still inside the monastery. Won’t come out until after the fighting; after he knows the monks are safe. He’s remaining inside to protect them.”

Athos brow furrowed. “How long ago was this?”

“Two nights,” Porthos forced himself to remain calm, “and I’ve not heard a word from him since.” He shook his head, face grim. Something under his skin had been itching ever since he’d watched Aramis walk out of the stable. It’d only gotten worse when he’d received no word from the marksman the last couple days. “He told me of his plans to find where the Spanish were keeping the powder and muskets, to sneak in and foul up the lot.”

Despite himself, Athos grinned. “That sounds like Aramis.”

Porthos sighed. “Something’s wrong, Athos. I can feel it. He would have sent word, if not on his own, then some other way. He’s been using a local farmer, Pietro, but even he’s had no word from the monastery in days. Aramis would’ve found a way – if only to let me know he was all right.” He swore under his breath. “I told him not to do anything stupid.”

Athos patted him consolingly on the shoulder and sighed, his own concern ratcheting up. “Aramis is capable of taking care of himself. I know no one better at finding a way out of trouble.”

“Besides,” d’Artagnan added. “We have no way of knowing where they’d keep him if he was in trouble in order to mount any kind of rescue.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

In one smooth motion, the three Musketeers turned, weapons drawn. 

The young monk standing before them froze, eyes wide, a tremulous smile on his face. He held up both hands, showing he was unarmed. “I am a friend of Aramis’!” he said quickly, his voice cracking as he shifted his gaze from one to the other. “You’re his friends, yes? Pl-please. Please don’t shoot me.”

Athos glanced at Porthos, the larger man only shrugging. They hooked their weapons back on their belts, and Athos approached the young man. He couldn’t have been much more than a boy – perhaps a few years younger than d’Artagnan – clad in a brown cassock, his blue eyes filled with enthusiasm. It wasn’t exactly the type of help they’d hoped for, but if he’d ventured out on his own for the sake of one of their brothers, he was a welcome sight nonetheless.

“We will not shoot you,” Athos assured him. The lad relaxed, lowering his hands, his smile brightening. “Who are you and what do you know of Aramis?”

“My name is Aaron. I was helping Brother-- I mean Aramis to locate the weapons. They were stored in one of the underground catacombs that run underneath the monastery.” The monk’s eyes widened and he took a hesitant step back as Porthos approached. 

d’Artagnan cleared his throat, gaining his comrade’s attention and tilted his head toward the monk, wordlessly pointing out the boy’s nervousness toward the larger man. Porthos stopped and took a breath, letting the anxiousness fall from his face. “What ‘appened to him?” he asked. “Aramis? Why hasn’t he contacted us?”

Aaron shifted, his expression turning to one of apology. “He- he sent me and the others away while he doused the powder, but I did not fully leave. I waited in one of the corridors, thinking I could keep watch. Bu-but there were too many of them. And the Spanish Commander… he hurt him. I-” he shrugged helplessly at Athos. “I wanted to help but-”

Athos nodded in understanding. “How badly? You said they hurt him, do you think he’d be able to walk out if set free?”

Aaron’s mouth opened and closed as he thought about the former Musketeer. “I- I don’t know. There- there was a lot of blood –“

“I knew it,” Porthos growled, not bothering to hide his frustration. “I’ll carry him out if I have to. We’ve got to go in there now!”

Athos glanced at Porthos, a silent plea for patience, knowing it was a lot to ask of his friend. Porthos breathed in, holding the air in his lungs for a moment before letting it out, some of the tension draining out with the air. When the big man nodded, Athos turned back to Aaron. “Can you take us to where he’s being kept?”

Aaron’s face brightened triumphantly. “Of course. That’s why I’ve come. I know the tunnels beneath the monastery like I know my own name.” His face took on a seriousness that made him look far older than his years. “The abbé has tried to plead for him but to no avail. He’s been locked away with no food or water these last two days.”

Porthos cursed and paced in earnest. Ignoring him for the moment, Athos gazed at the village, his mind working furiously. From their vantage point, he could see the bell tower of the monastery, the tallest structure and on the highest ground, it rose above the other buildings in the village. They had the men – and the element of surprise. But the monastery would be difficult to breach, the fortress still daunting after all these years.

“In an hour, it will be prayer time,” Aaron offered. He shifted nervously as all eyes swung back to him. 

“So?”

“W-well,” the novice cleared his throat, trying to ignore Porthos’ scowl, “it’s a few hours before evening meal, and those soldiers allowed to leave are usually back by then, taking a siesta before evening repast. You’d be able to catch most of them asleep.”

A slow grin creased Athos’ face. “Gentlemen,” he walked back into their midst. “It appears we have a brother to rescue and a monastery to liberate.” 

Porthos nodded, the motion short and choppy. “Finally,” he huffed. 

“Porthos, you and d’Artagnan go back with Aaron. Find Aramis. Do what you can to get him out of there. I’ll ride back to the regiment and muster the men.” He raised a brow to the boy. “An hour you say?” 

Aaron nodded his affirmation, and Athos shifted his gaze to Porthos. “I suggest you hurry.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The Musketeers and their monk-escort made it through the village without attracting attention, coming across no soldiers along their route. It wasn’t until they arrived at the tunnel entrance near the lake that d’Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well,” he whispered watching, Aaron disappear alone into the tunnel, “so far so good.”

Porthos, however, was not so enthused. “What’s good about us being here and him being in there where we should be?”

“I suppose you’d rather just wade in, swords swinging?” He rolled his eyes at Porthos’ shrug. “We’ll get him out. There’s really no other option.” 

The larger man merely grunted and returned to staring into the dark recesses of the tunnel. d’Artagnan returned his focus there too, sighing. He didn’t know how to reassure his friend. He understood – even shared – his frustration. 

Recalling what Athos and Porthos had told him on their journey to Douai of how Porthos and Aramis met, all they’d been through not long after Savoy and since, it was natural that he’d become rather protective of the marksman. There was a bond there, stronger than blood, stronger than what most people hope to find.

It was that kind of friendship that d’Artagnan had come to rely on since losing his father, his farm and everything he’d ever known. These men meant as much to him as his own family had, he’d come to realize that very early on, and if he were to suffer a loss of even one of them, a part of himself would surely die too.

Porthos shifted anxiously beside him. The Gascon studied him from the corner of his eye, noting how he looked ready to bolt, and understood that only through sheer force of will, did he remain where he was. For all his power and gruffness, there was much more to him besides the ability to physically intimidate. Porthos possessed a strength of character and keen intelligence, a rarity in someone who, from childhood, had been brought up in a life as harsh as the one he’d lead in the Court of Miracles. He’d suffered much physical and emotional abuse but held no ill will for it. D’Artagnan could not be so sure he’d have turned out as well were it not for his father and mother. 

Porthos sighed, frustration seeping into his voice. “How much longer do you think we have before Athos and the men are in position?”

d’Artagnan peered up at the sky, gauging the time. “Maybe half an hour.” He took that moment to grab his water skin, uncork it and swallow a cool drink. “If we’re lucky.”

“Hey,” Porthos tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. Aaron walked toward them from the dark tunnel, a bundle clutched to his chest. 

Once outside and under the cover of the trees, he dropped the bundle and knelt down, handing a brown wad of cloth to d’Artagnan. The Musketeer unrolled it and held it up to his chest, looking down at the cassock with a sigh.

“Brown is your color, Whelp.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and tugged the robe over his head, letting it fall to his boots.

“Good fit,” Aaron observed. He stood and held a second robe out to Porthos, shrugging apologetically. “Um…” Aaron stammered, shifting from one foot to the other. “We don’t usually get many monks your size.”

“What are you talking about?” Porthos growled, snatching the material from his hand.

D’Artagnan only grinned and patted the younger man on the back. “Don’t worry.” He gazed over Aaron’s shoulder to watch Porthos maneuver the garment over his head and tug it down over his bulky leather doublet. “He’s all bark – unless you’re trying to kill him.”

The monk nodded in awe. “I’ll be sure not to do that, then.”

They watched Porthos yank on the coarse brown material, and after a few moments d’Artagnan grinned, moving his hand to his face to hide his amusement at the other Musketeer’s predicament. Blissfully unaware of his audience, Porthos went about busily tying the rope around the waist of his borrowed cassock. 

d’Artagnan chortled a laugh before biting his lips to stifle the rest. 

Porthos looked up sharply. “What?”

Lips pinched together, quirking at the sides, the younger musketeer lifted his chin toward the man’s feet. “Feeling a draft, Porthos?” 

Stone faced, Porthos raised his arms, looking down at himself. His boots and part of his breeches were clearly visible, the robe of his cassock stopping just past his knees.

Slapping his arms to his sides, Porthos glared at Aaron. “You telling me all monks are short?” 

Aaron shook his head, hovering between apologetic and amused. “No?” Truly the novice had no idea how to answer the man’s question.

Porthos’ gaze snapped back to the Gascon. “Not a word,” he ordered, wagging a threatening finger at the younger musketeer.

Hands shoulder high, palms out d’Artagnan shook his head. “Oh no,” he assured, eyes twinkling, “I know better than to poke a bear.”

It was as if the air went out of the moment as Porthos face fell, the very portrait of misery. “That’s the second time this week I’ve been called a bear…” he murmured.

Sensing his friend’s sudden change in mood, but uncertain as to the cause, d’Artagnan canted his head to the side. “Who else?”

“Aramis…” the dark skinned man met the lad’s eyes and swallowed audibly. “Two days ago.”

d’Artagnan straightened and gave a jerky nod. “Well then,” he nodded his head toward the dark tunnel before them. “We should quit wasting time here and see about getting him out of there, yes?”

The fight and determination returning to his eyes, Porthos nodded curtly and looked at Aaron. “Lead the way, boy.”

Aaron looked down at Porthos feet then heavenward, mumbling what d’Artagnan was sure was a quick prayer. “Right,” he said stepping closer to give weight to his next words. “Once we emerge from the tunnel, you must keep your hands in your sleeves, heads down, hidden beneath your hoods at all times. Do you understand?” Lifting his hood up to cover his head he seemed pleased that the Musketeers merely nodded in response and mimicked his actions. “Follow me but keep your steps small and measured. Nothing hurried.” 

Before moving in, the novice looked back and eyed Porthos. “It’s a very tight fit in places. If it becomes too narrow, turn and head back.”

Porthos huffed. “If it’s too narrow,” he whispered, “I’ll bloody well widen it myself. No way I’m not getting in there.”

D’Artagnan patted him on the back and looked at the monk. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” He motioned to the tunnel entrance. “Lead on.”

They pressed through the opening one at a time, Porthos, as the monk had feared, having the most trouble. But also as promised, Porthos did not falter. Determined to widen the damn thing with his fists if need be, he did not shy from the close, suffocating feel of the stone walls closing in around them. He grunted and contorted his body in ways d’Artagnan had not thought possible of so large a man, sucking in breath to squeeze through where it appeared too narrow to accommodate him. 

The journey seemed to take forever, but at last they squeezed through to a main part of the underground catacomb and came to a stop behind stacks of boxes and barrels that hid it from view. 

Sweating as much from exertion as from relief, they remained hidden behind the stacks while the novice peered out from behind them to make certain the way was clear, d’Artagnan following suit on the opposite side. The young musketeer nodded, deeming the way clear and stepped out, Porthos followed a pace or two behind him. 

The novice however, did not budge.

d’Artagnan looked at the boy. “What’s the matter,” he called quietly. He felt Porthos crowd in behind him, also curious.

“I’m…” the boy looked nervously at d’Artagnan. “He’s down here, I know that for sure. I just don’t quite know where. Exactly.”

“What?” Porthos choked in a strangled whisper. Pushing passed the younger Musketeer, he grabbed the monk by the collar of his cassock and would have lifted the lad off the ground except for d’Artagnan’s staying hand.

“Porthos!” he whispered in as authoritative tone as he could manage against the need for stealth. Getting in the larger man’s face, he shook him to get his attention. “Hey, he got us this far and that is more than we would have been able to do on our own.” 

A tense heartbeat passed and Porthos reluctantly released the monk, brushing his hands across the novice’s shoulders in apology. Aaron stood staunch, unaffected by Porthos’ anger, sorrow and repent coloring his face.

Turning back to the monk, d’Artagnan gathered himself. “Think, Aaron. Surely you have some idea where we might begin to search.”

The novice glanced around them, his bottom lip between his teeth in thought. “Well, there are some cells that were used for punishment and incarceration before the monastery was given to the order. They are difficult to get to if one doesn’t know where to go.”

“But you can get us there?”

Aaron nodded. 

“Good,” d’Artagnan encouraged. “We’ll start there.“

The novice nodded and the three set off at fast walk down the left corridor. The hallway turned and twisted, with offshoots of corridors and intersections that went every which way. D’Artagnan marveled at them and moreover, the novice’s ability to keep his sense of direction. If they’d attempted this without him, they’d have been hopelessly lost. For all the young man’s uncertainty earlier, Aaron led them at a controlled, but ground eating, pace. Thankfully, the dirt floor beneath them muffled their hurried steps.

They rounded a bend and a dark cloaked figure stepped out in front of them. The three halted, Porthos and d'Artagnan’s hands at the ready, immediately wrestling the fabric of their cassocks out of the way to get to their swords.

“What is this?” the man pulled his hood back revealing himself. “Who are you men?”

“Abbé Fouquet!” Aaron rushed forward and knelt before his mentor. “They are Aramis’ fellow Musketeers. They’ve come to help him. Forgive me, Abbé, but I could not just stand by and let the soldiers hurt him anymore. I had to get help. Guzman’s intentions are clear, and I could not let it happen.”

Porthos approached the abbé and nodded. “I’m Porthos. Aramis has told me much about you,” he held out a hand in friendship and waited. “He ‘olds you in high regard. Any friend to Aramis is a friend of mine.”

The abbé eyed the proffered greeting a moment before one side of his mouth quirked in a smile. “I would have known you even without the introduction. You match the description René so often wrote in his letters. But please,” he gazed past d’Artagnan to peer down the hall, “we cannot remain here. I know where they’ve taken him but I warn you, he is heavily guarded.” 

“How many?” d’Artagnan approached, anxious.

“Three or four soldiers,” the abbé declared, his voice ominous.

Porthos chuckled. “Four…” he grinned at d’Artagnan. “Is that all?”

d’Artagnan lay a comforting hand on the abbé’s shoulder. “We’ve faced greater odds.”

The abbé looked sharply at the Gascon. “Do as you must, but I will not tolerate killing,” he warned.

Porthos huffed a breath. “Well, now there’s a challenge.” He thought a moment then leaned into Fouquet. “What say you to a little violence then?” he shrugged a shoulder. “Worse they’ll have is a headache when they wake up, but at least they will wake up.”

Fouquet considered the Musketeers offer. “Under the circumstances, I believe God would approve,” he bowed slightly in agreement. He quirked his head toward the darkened hallway behind him. “This way.”

After another series of tunnels, the abbé motioned them to one side. They moved swiftly and pressed their backs to the stones, an open entrance to a larger room just ahead, the light from several torches flickering against the walls.

Placing a finger to his lips, the abbé pointed at the entrance and held up four fingers. d'Artagnan and Porthos nodded their understanding and crept along the shadows, past the monks and to the entrance before stopping once more. 

Sharing a look, they raised their hoods up and over their heads, pulled their daggers from beneath their robes and tucked them safely into the sleeves of their cassocks. D’Artagnan raised his head, nodded his readiness and they stepped quietly into the room.

The guards eyed them curiously, one of them speaking quickly in Spanish, presumably to ask what they were doing there. When one of the men caught sight of Porthos boots, he shouted an alarm but it was too late. Porthos smashed the hilt of his dagger into the man’s face, his nose exploding in a hail of blood and broken bone. d’Artagnan had one of his two by the head, and shoved him into the stone wall. The guard dropped unconscious as the other turned to attack.

It was over before it started; four Spanish guards, bleeding and unconscious on the dirt floor, two Musketeers barely breathing hard as they shared a grin. Porthos stood, letting his eyes rake the large room. There were three heavy wood doors, one on each side of the room, Aramis locked behind one of them.

Fouquet swept quickly into the room and knelt next to one of the guards. He extracted a key and marched to the door on the opposite wall, slid the key into the lock and twisted the metal. The lock clicked audibly. Grabbing the handle, the abbé put a shoulder to the door and shoved.

Porthos burst into the room and came to an abrupt halt. Aramis lay unmoving, face down on the floor, bloody and beaten. He was clad in nothing but his braies, dark bruises blooming on his pale skin. 

“Aramis…” Porthos rushed forward and knelt by his friend, hands hovering, uncertain where to touch him that would not cause more harm. 

The abbé moved quietly past d’Artagnan and took a knee on the other side of the unconscious man. He laid a hand on the side of Aramis’ neck and gazed up at Porthos. “His heart still beats.”

Porthos released a small keen of relief. With care, he slowly turned his friend onto his back, frowning at the dark purple bruising along Aramis’ ribs.

“Aramis,” he called softly. “Hey, time to wake up.” He tapped him on his cheek, wiping at the dried blood that had flowed from a shallow cut near his eye. “Hey,” he tried with more force this time. “Not joking about,” he watched the marksman’s head sway listlessly from side to side. “Aramis! We’ve got to go--”

It happened without warning. One moment the marksman lay unconscious and barely moving, the next he was awake and flailing. Porthos took the brunt of it, the Abbe’ moving back in time to narrowly miss being kicked.

“What’s wrong with him?” Aaron worried, crossing himself.

“He is delirious,” Fouquet offered, face pinched in concern as they all looked on.

Hands clutching at nothing and everything, Aramis struggled against some unseen foe. Porthos remained at his side, steadfast and unmoving, talking in soothing tones, trying to reach his friend. Muttering curses in Spanish, the marksman drew back a fist and swung. The effort was weak, however, and Porthos caught the fist easily and grabbed his other hand, just in case.

“Aramis!” Porthos shouted, casting gentleness aside. “Enough!” He held him until the last of his strength fled and the marksman stilled, back arched and curled into himself. “It’s me, Aramis. You with me now?”

Sweating and breathing hard, Aramis pulled back enough to gaze at his friend. Head and eyes clearing, he blinked. “Porthos?” He squinted up at the bigger man, his voice rough and dry, still uncertain.

“Yeah.” Porthos soothed, ducking down so his friend could see him. “It’s me.” The dark skinned musketeer released one clenched fist and reached around to support his friend’s back as his strength waned. “That’s it, ‘Mis. You’re all right. I’ve got ya.”

Aramis slumped as recognition set in. Eyes blinking away the fog of whatever horror his mind had concocted… be it dream or memory, Aramis’ senses returned slowly. His gaze snapped from Porthos to d’Artagnan, Aaron and then Fouquet before coming back to Porthos, brow pinched, his face tight with pain. 

“Madre de dios,” Aramis breathed and folded forward, head down. Porthos met him halfway, leaning in to take his weight as the marksman rested his head against his shoulder. 

“Easy,” Porthos soothed, releasing Aramis’ hands completely as he began rubbing circles on his back. A water skin appeared over his shoulder. He nodded his thanks to d’Artagnan, and held it up to Aramis’ mouth, encouraging him to take a drink.

After the marksman had taken a few healthy sips, Porthos handed the skin back to d’Artagnan. 

Aramis groaned, wiping a shaking hand across his lips. “Mon ami, I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry…” he muttered to his friend.

“Hey now,” Porthos interrupted, pulling back to catch the Spaniard’s eye. “The day I can’t take a punch from you, is the day you can take my pauldron as well. Besides,” he sat back and grinned, wincing as he took in his friend’s battered face. “In your condition, I could probably outshoot you too.”

Aramis attempted to return the grin. “That’ll be the day--” He grimaced and clutched at this side, sucking in a breath between his teeth. “The day you may take my pauldron from me.” When the pain lessened, he shifted back, resting his head against the stone, eyes slitted as he looked up at his friends. “What’d I miss?”

“Oh, not much,” d’Artagnan shrugged. The young Musketeer crouched down by Aramis’ feet, his eyes raking over his battered body. “Just the start of a war with Spain. Athos will be breaking through the front gates soon and you...” he grinned ruefully at the marksman, “you look as if a light breeze would take you down.” 

Porthos rubbed his beard, his gaze again sweeping his friend, though more closely. “Maybe you should sit this one out,” he advised. “Stay back with the monks until it’s over.”

Aramis shook his head, swallowing hard as the movement aggravated the pounding in his head. “I will crawl out of here if I have to.” He placed a hand behind him to press against the wall, using it to get his feet under him, reaching out blindly before Porthos moved in to take it.

“Of course you will,” Porthos drolled, sounding less than convinced as he helped him stand.

The journey cost the marksman and his eyes quickly slammed shut. “Oh dios...,” he ground out against the pain. Doubling over, he clutched again at his chest, the other hand grasping the arm Porthos never quite withdrew. 

“Perhaps you should take your friend’s advice, my son,” Fouquet interjected.

“No.” The dark head shook adamantly. He cautiously straightened, leveling his eyes at his friends, “I have a certain Lieutenant Guzman to thank for breaking my ribs. I rather wish to return the favor.”

“Well, you did ruin his powder and munitions” Porthos reminded him.

Aramis grinned at his friend. “He was rather upset about that.” He moved away from the wall on wobbly legs, stopped suddenly and looked down at himself. “Um… I would like some clothes, however. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“How about these?” Aaron held out a loosely wrapped bundle. 

One corner of the cloth was pulled back and Aramis easily recognized the sight of his shirt, breeches and doublet. He grinned at the novice and Aaron shrugged. “Abbé Fouquet had me get them from your room.”

The abbé nodded. “We needed to get your things out before they searched your room. If they had found your weapons…” He shrugged, the ramifications obvious.

“It would have put you and all the monks at great peril and on my behalf.” he patted his mentor on the shoulder. “You did the right thing, Abbé.”

The abbé looked at him calmly. “I had no intention of letting them kill you René. I was on my way back here with your clothing, intending to get you out myself. I was going to drug their wine.” Aramis raised his brows in surprise, and Fouquet produced a small vial from under his belt. He shrugged. “Just enough to make them sleep.”

“Of course.” Aramis nodded gratefully. “Thank you, dear friend.” he gritted his teeth as he reached out to take the bundle, smiling gratefully as the monks moved in to assist him. 

Porthos took a step back but did not go far. From the door, d’Artagnan watched as Fouquet and Aaron spoke soft, encouraging words to Aramis, his face tightening in pain as he pulled his shirt down across his chest. Grasping his blue sash, he waved away the doublet, no doubt anticipating the discomfort donning the garment would cause. 

The monks attended the wounded man with such care and familiarity, d’Artagnan wondered of Aramis’ intentions after this was over. Would Aramis be coming with them, or staying with his old mentor and friend and new brothers? Porthos witnessed the exchange, too, and the Gascon saw the same concern reflected in his countenance.

A muffled explosion thumped overhead and trickles of dirt fell from the ceiling. They all ducked as the debris began to fall, the ceiling above them cracking under the blast. Aramis stumbled and Porthos reached out quickly, pulling him to his chest, his other hand shielding the wounded man’s head until the rumble faded and the dust settled.

“Gentlemen,” d’Artagnan surveyed the crumbling ceiling, then grinned at Porthos and Aramis. “I believe Athos has arrived. You ready to join this fight?”

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

“Light it up!” Athos ordered the next shooter.

The musket shot split the air and the set of charges near the monastery gates exploded. 

The blast had the desired effect and the Musketeers ducked behind their cover as the thick wood of the once impenetrable gate splintered and fragmented, bits and pieces raining down around them. They held their position under the hailing onslaught, waiting for their commander’s next order.

Athos could not take the time to celebrate nor take joy in his judgment to set more than one charge to blow the gate. He swiftly, decisively took command and, before the last remnant rained down, rose from cover, sword raised. “Charge!” he yelled. 

The smoke from the blast still hung heavily in the dry, hot air, and he wanted to use the cover it offered before it dissipated. With the smoke concealing their approach, they would be able to cross the distance to the gate, hiding their numbers until they could engage with the enemy. 

The musketeers charged upon his command. They shouted in chorus, as much to confuse the enemy of their numbers as to intimidate, leaping from their cover, rushing the entrance in a fury of men and swords. Never once did they slow, jumping over the bits of shattered gate that littered the ground around them, until they were through and into the courtyard. The sound of swords clashing rang through the air as they met resistance head on.

Stopping mid-field, Athos turned and shouted to the other squad still behind cover. “Take the walls!” He watched with baited breath as another wave of men rushed the fortress from her sides.

These men were the most vulnerable, most exposed. He prayed his decision to take the gate and distract the Spanish with the first wave of their attack would prove to be the right approach. It had been a gamble. One that had not had the full support of one of his lieutenants who believed a silent attack of the wall first would be best. But Athos was captain, and he had to go with his gut. The lieutenant had backed down quickly, acquiescing to his commander’s decision. He’d commanded men before, but never on this scale. It was his true test, one he did not intend to fail. 

Placed all around the outside of the fortress at odd intervals, men carrying ropes rushed from cover and sprinted to the wall to stop a short distance from it. Each began swinging his rope the metal hooks on the end arcing with growing speed. One after another, hooks soared through the air, sailing high, up and over to land at the top of the walls. Once home, the men pulled the rope taut to make sure the hook found purchase, ready for climbing. 

Given the signal, another group of men, three to a rope, darted out from cover and began to climb, moving swiftly up the twine. Athos jerked his eyes up, scanning the top of the wall, willing the Spanish to stay occupied with his men in the courtyard. He watched with bated breath as the men moved higher up the ropes, closer to the top, elation taking root when it looked as if they’d make it unscathed. Just then, a figure appeared at the top of the nearest anchored rope, leaning over to glance down at the ascending Musketeers.

“Damn…” Athos growled. He’d not had enough men to set sharpshooters in place to ensure this would not happen. God, what he wouldn’t give to have Aramis staked out in one of the buildings with his long gun.

The Spanish guard shouted something he could not make out, then brought his musket to bear over the wall and aimed it down at the nearest man. Athos pulled his pistol, knowing the man was out of range. With the nearest vulnerable musketeer in the Spanish soldier’s sights, the hammer connected, a spark flashed and…. 

A gout of fire issued from the pan but no accompanying percussion – a misfire. Athos exhaled in relief and smiled. The intended victim shouted exuberantly and climbed faster to meet his adversary. 

Athos looked at the man next to him. Lieutenant Dupree. The man who’d argued against scaling the wall on the second wave of attack. He’d seen the whole thing play out and gave his Captain a relieved smile. “It’s a good thing God is on our side.”

“I don’t know about that,” Athos pointed to the man holding the sabotaged gun, “but Aramis certainly is.”

“I know a few musketeers who’ll want to thank him.” 

“Indeed,” Athos eyes sparkled in anticipation as he headed toward the monastery. “Come, let us join the others. Wouldn’t want to miss all the fun, would we?” 

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Despite his condition, Aramis finished dressing quickly. Porthos loaded his pistol for him and after strapping on his sword and sheathing his main gauche, they were out the door, following Aaron who led them back through the tunnels at a fast clip. Porthos stayed close, ready to lend a hand if he should waver, but Aramis never once faltered, the call to battle singing in his veins and pushing aside any pain and injury.

It wasn’t until they topped the staircase and entered the main floor of the monastery that he felt his strength wane. Dizzy with exertion, he stopped outside the door and placed a hand against the wall for support, keenly aware of Porthos worried gaze as the man stopped next to him, hovering. He was also aware of d’Artagnan’s nervous energy buzzing nearby. The young Musketeer was eager to join the fight, the sound of clanging steel and the shouts of men in the throes of battle was a hard thing to ignore.

“’Mis…” Porthos placed a tentative hand on his arm. “Stay back. No one would think less of you. You’ve more than done your part.”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan paced back to them, anxious. “I’ve counted a dozen misfires from Spanish muskets already. You’ve earned a rest. Go with the monks, we’ll come get you once this is done.”

Breathing hard, hand clutched to his side, Aramis looked at his friends. “I can no more remain behind than either of you would.”

D’Artagnan and Porthos shared a knowing glance then dipped their heads in understanding, and Aramis knew the argument was over. “I appreciate the concern, I do,” he grit his teeth and managed to stand upright, squaring his shoulders and giving them a pained grin. “There will be time for rest and recuperation after. Now,” he tilted his head toward the sounds of chaos outside. “What are you waiting for? I imagine Athos could use his two best men about now.”

D’Artagnan returned his grin, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he drew his sword prepared to make good his exit. He pulled his pistol and handed it, butt first, to the marksman. “Three best men,” he corrected.

Aramis smiled and took the weapon, nodding his gratitude as d’Artagnan vaulted out the door, casting himself to the melee in the monastery courtyard. Porthos, however, had not moved. Aramis raised an eyebrow at his friend.

The dark skinned musketeer finally nodded. “Fine,” he grumbled. He too removed his harquebus from his belt, handing it and his ammunition pouch to his friend. “Take it. Fire all you want, but keep your sword in its sheath unless you’ve no choice.” He pointed at the marksman. “I mean it. You’re in no condition to wield a sword.”

Aramis frowned, his face pinched. “I think I like it better when I’m the one worrying about all of you.”

Porthos grinned. “I always worry about you. You’re just too busy trying to get killed to notice.” Pulling his sword, he turned and followed d’Artagnan’s lead, a shout of challenge in his wake, echoing into the stoned walls of the fortress before he met his first opponent.

“That man is truly frightening.”

Aramis’ eyes shifted to his left toward Fouquet, standing nearby, watching with concern as the Musketeers and Spanish descended into further chaos. To the marksman’s trained eye, it was actually a battle well in hand and diminishing quickly.

“Abbé,” Aramis turned to his mentor. “Gather the monks and take them all to the east chapel. It’s furthest from the courtyard and offers the safest location to wait out the battle. Make sure to bar the door. When the Spanish realize this is not going in their favor, some may seek to hide.”

Fouquet nodded. “You will not kill them if they surrender?”

“I gave my word and I will keep it,” he assured. “But desperate men cannot be trusted and they will attempt to convince you otherwise to survive.”

Fouquet seemed to hesitate. “You… will be joining them?” he queried, indicating the courtyard

Aramis nodded. “I can do no less than my best. And being out there is the best way to make certain my word to you is assured.”

Fouquet studied his former pupil for a moment, smiling softly as the man checked his pistols, unaffected by the sounds of battle going on mere steps from him. Aramis’ head rose suddenly, his attention on the far side of the room as a large contingent of monks entered. Terrified and uncertain, the group nearly collapsed in joy at the sight of their abbé, clinging to him and chattering anxiously about what they should do. 

“Brothers,” Fouquet offered, his voice calm and collected. He gathered them to him and led them to an adjoining hall. “We will adjourn to the east chapel,” he continued, his voice soon little more than an echo as he drew further away toward his intended destination.

Aramis readied his pistols, glancing back at the retreating monks, unsurprised to see Aaron still in the room. The novice hung back, merely gazing at his retreating brethren, chewing anxiously on his lower lip, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Aramis studied the young man, his own worry notching up a bit. He knew the look in the young man’s eyes, had experienced it first hand in his youth and seen it in d’Artagnan’s only moments before. 

While he doubted the novice’s desire to do physical harm, it was apparent he would be involved in some manner, with or without Aramis’ invitation. Calling the young man to him, the boy looked relieved and eager at the same time.

“I have a very important job for you Aaron,” he whispered conspiratorially to the youth, “if you think you’re up for it.”

“Yes. Yes indeed. I want to help. I must help.”

“Then you are the right man for this job.” He grasped the monk’s arm and led him to a window, moving them to the side to remain unseen. “The Spanish are keeping their horses and wagons in the main stables.” He pointed across the inner monastery wall to the south. Aaron nodded but looked slightly confused. “I need you to get in there and release their horses out the back gate. Can you do that for me?”

“I can but… why?”

“We want to keep them from escaping and warning their troops at the coast.” He looked gravely at the young man. “This is very important, Aaron. I would not ask this of you if it were not so.”

Aaron drew back his shoulders and stood as tall as he could manage. “I understand,” he nodded and turned to head out the main entrance.

“No!” Aramis reached out with a wince, grabbed the boy’s tunic and reeled him back. “Not that way,” He shook his head, wondering at the lad’s lack of self-preservation. “There’s a battle going on out there. Take the south hall,” he pointed, “then go out the window. You must do this without being seen or they may realize our plan.”

Aaron nodded eagerly. “Of course. I won’t fail you.” And with that, he was off at a sprint down the hall.

Aramis exhaled, relieved, the action sending a new wave of agony through his chest. He said a prayer for the boy’s safety, and that of all of his friends. Tucking his left arm close to his side, he drew his pistol, paced with determined and readied steps to the front entrance and surveyed the battle before him.

The clash of rapiers echoed against the stoned walls, light glinting off bare steel, some covered in spatterings of blood. Broken clay, baskets and bodies, some writhing in pain, others not moving at all, littered the courtyard.

Scattered about, small groups of men remained locked in mortal combat. On the whole, there were more musketeers standing and a ratio he estimated to be two to one, not great but certainly better than the Spanish. The cacophony of battle still filled the air, men fighting for their lives, viciously lashing out at one another, jabbing and slashing, trying to gain the upper hand. 

Porthos hadn’t gone far. He had three men set upon him and for anyone else, Aramis would be fearful, but for the big musketeer it was exhilarating. A maniacal smile on his face, he smashed one with the hilt of his sword, then dropped it to grab the other two by their heads. The collision of their skulls sent up a sickening crack for all to hear. Aramis winced in sympathy.

A few paces away, d’Artagnan fought two men, but Aramis could see he had them easily outmatched in skill and determination. It wasn’t long before the Gascon’s opponents dropped their swords and surrendered. The lad dropped them both with a crack to each of their heads before rushing off to the aid of another of his musketeer brethren.

Aramis eyes scanned the throng, searching for one man in particular. Guzman. Not finding him among the men in the courtyard, he looked at the top of the battlements, thinking the man had taken a position aloft to survey his men and better direct them.

“Aramis!” a familiar voice barked and the marksman jerked his gaze back. 

Porthos broke the nose of his current opponent then looked at his friend. “Help Athos!” he bellowed and turned to take on more attackers.

Aramis glanced quickly at his harquebus; loaded and primed. Scanning the melee in the courtyard he found Athos. He had four men on him, their attack moving him back, pressing him nearly to the wall. There’d be nowhere to retreat after that. 

Muttering a curse, the marksman lifted the pistol and took aim. The hammer dropped, powder ignited and in the dissipating cloud of smoke, one of the four dropped to clutch at his leg. The situation slightly less dire, Aramis limped down the stairs and moved toward the Captain, kicking at a downed man’s hand when he saw the raised dagger. The soldier dropped the weapon and Aramis kicked his head, knocking him unconscious before drawing another pistol and firing into the leg of another of Athos' opponents.

The man made no move to get up and Aramis grinned at his friend. “Need a hand?”

Stunned, the other two attackers backed away, as if to decide what to do next.

“I was doing… just … fine,” Athos panted, eyes sparkling with mirth. Just as quickly, his countenance clouded and his brow furrowed. He blocked a sword aimed at his head and parried another meant for his side. 

Having overcome the change in their dynamic, the two Spanish attackers elected to press back in. One of the two, now turning his attention to Aramis, lunged in attempt to run him through. Athos parried the blow, stepping in front of the marksman as he quickly reloaded. 

“It is rude,” Aramis pulled the paper charge open with his teeth and dumped the powder and ball into the pistol, “to interrupt when two men are talking,” he scolded, then repeated the same in Spanish. 

“I’ve seen you look better, brother,” Athos called over his shoulder. “Heard our Spanish friends were less than hospitable--” he knocked one attacker off his feet, “and tried to kill you.”

Aramis chuckled. “Yes, but don’t you know by now, Athos – apologies,” he aimed and fired. Another Spanish soldier bellowed in agony before dropping to the ground, hand grabbing at his shoulder. “– I mean Captain,” he corrected then caught his friend’s eye. “I’m much too pretty to die.” 

Dropping to reload, he heard the smile in Athos’ voice. “Normally I’d agree, but,” the Captain grunted and blocked another soldier’s attempted lunge at the marksman. “Apparently you haven’t seen yourself lately.” 

“Of course not,” Aramis smiled, took aim and shot another who had one of their men pinned. The man jerked and fell sideways. “No mirrors in a monastery. We live by faith that our beauty remains.”

Glancing in time to see the recipient of Aramis’ well-placed shot, Athos quirked an eye at his friend. “Apparently you’re a bit rusty.” He pointed his sword at the man Aramis had just felled and who lay writhing in pain on the ground. “I believe he is still alive.”

“Athos, please,” he tutted, “I’ve only been gone a month. Besides,” he wiped quickly at the sweat on his brow and dropped to begin reloading again. “I am merely keeping a promise to a friend.” Aramis gaze and attention drifted, a familiar shadow skirting the melee on the far side of the courtyard garnering his attention.

Guzman. The coward was slinking around the outside of the courtyard, careful to avoid the fighting. Sword in hand, his back low, dark eyes darted about him like a frightened rabbit, and heading toward the…

“Stables,” Aramis breathed. 

Aaron.

“What is it?” Athos tried to shake off his opponent to better see what was amiss.

Pain and fatigue forgotten, Aramis was on his feet and running, eyes tracking the Spanish commander, hands moving from memory to finish reloading the pistol. Task done, he tucked the weapon in his belt and worked on the other, not losing sight of Guzman. The sound of Athos’ voice calling failed to slow him as he jumped bodies and unconsciously dodged the swipe of a sword from his left. He did not waiver, his focus on the man who had just slipped through the open doors of the stable.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Aaron was not a fool. He knew the reason Aramis had asked him to release the horses from the stable. While it was a sound strategy in the event some of the Spanish soldiers were able to slip through the Musketeers’ defenses, it was a remote chance at best, and Aaron was under no delusion that his efforts were more for his protection than any kind of actual aid to the cause.

Though certain Aramis had sent him here to keep him well away from the fighting, he was determined to perform his duty, moving the animals from the stable, thwarting any effort to escape the soldiers may attempt. It may not have been exciting, but it was a worthwhile endeavor, and he would do it to the best of his ability.

Slapping the rump of the two mares he had just released, he rushed back inside, hurrying to the last remaining occupied stalls. The big black stallion stomped its feet, obviously aware of the tension outside in the courtyard. The only other animals still inside were Brun, the old bow-backed gelding they used to pull the plow, and Bertrand, the abbé’s obstinate mule. He doubted either of them was fit – or in Bertrand’s case, willing – to carry a man, so he concentrated his efforts on the agitated stallion, holding up his hands in an attempt to calm the powerful animal.

“Easy, cheval, easy.” He kept his voice level, his eyes on the stallion as it tossed its head, ebony mane flying. He opened the door to the stall and reached in, grabbing the bridle as the horse nudged closer. “That’s it. Easy…” he soothed. He placed a hand on the steed’s nose and rubbed, smiling as the spirited horse stilled.

Aaron pulled on the bridle and the stallion moved, following him from the stall toward the open door at the rear of the stable.

A noise from behind made the horse startle, and Aaron turned to see Lieutenant Guzman burst through the main doors. The Spanish officer stumbled into the stable, eyes wide and wild. Lungs heaving, the Spaniard staggered around on stilted, jerky legs. He ran a hand across his sweating brow, knocking his cap askew, his normally pristine uniform unbuttoned and torn. Turning in a circle as he surveyed the empty stalls, he finally spotted Aaron and the stallion near the back of the stable.

He pulled his sword, lowered his head and stalked toward them.

“Move aside,” he growled. “I want that horse.”

Aaron shook his head, defiant. “No.” Quickly he turned, slapping the horse hard on its flank. “Go!” he shouted.

The stallion shrieked and reared. Before Aaron could dodge, he felt a sharp pain in his back. The world went white, the sound of the fighting outside replaced by a loud, high-pitched ringing in his ears. As the blinding white light receded, a gray film began to close in from the edges of his sight, and his breath caught in his throat. Suddenly weak, his legs wobbled and he sank to the ground, his mind frantically trying to grasp what had gone wrong.

On his knees, head down, Aaron blinked. A pair of shiny black boots wavered into focus and he followed them up to find Guzman standing before him, eyes narrowed, a spiteful grin lifting the corners of his mouth. The Lieutenant held a rapier in his hand, the tip of the blade dripping red.

“You are a traitor to Spain,” Guzman sneered. “The sentence for treason is death.”

Breathing became more difficult, but Aaron shook his head, gulped in a lungful of air. “I am not Spanish. I answer only to God.” The pain in his back was spreading and he could feel the rush of blood down his leg.

Guzman laughed. “Your God cannot help you now, boy. Nobody can. You will die alone.”

“I am never alone,” Aaron whispered, his heavy lids beginning to close. “He is always with me.”

“Then allow me to send you to Him.”

Guzman gripped the hilt of the sword tightly and thrust forward, driving the blade into the young monk’s chest.

“No!”

The officer looked up, grinning as the dark haired monk who had caused him so much trouble ran through the doors, his wide eyes locked onto the slumped figure of the boy.

“What have you done?”

Guzman yanked the sword from Aaron’s chest and the young man dropped bonelessly to the ground. With a derisive snort, the Spaniard turned and grabbed the reins of the stallion that still scuffled nervously inside the doors, and jumped onto its back. Shouting, he spurred the mighty steed forward, forcing the monk – Brother René – to dive to the side as he broke for freedom.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis rushed into the stable, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. Frantically he looked around, his eyes finally coming to rest on the heartbreaking tableau at the far end. Aaron, the back of his cassock stained dark with blood, knelt before Guzman. The Spaniard’s sword flashed as it arced toward the boy’s heart.

“No!” Aramis screamed, knowing it was too late. Aaron grunted as the blade sank into his flesh, arching forward, his arms flailing at his sides. Aramis had been a soldier long enough to know a fatal blow when he saw one.

“What have you done?”

The breath rushed from his lungs and a numbing cold took over his body as he watched the Spaniard yank the bloody blade from the novice’s chest. Aaron toppled to the ground. He landed on his side, limbs askew, unseeing eyes staring directly into Aramis’.

An angry heat built, overtaking the cold, culminating in a blind rage that Aramis welcomed. Aaron was no soldier, just a boy who wanted to help. He didn’t deserve to die. He’d been a child of God… his friend.

Guzman mounted a big black stallion and pointed the animal directly toward the open doors behind him. He dove out of the way as the animal galloped past, rolling and raising his pistol to fire. Taking careful aim, he pulled the trigger. The ball sailed, striking Guzman in the back of his shoulder, the impact enough to knock him from the horse and bring him to the ground.

Aramis stalked out of the stable, tossing the spent pistol to the side and pulled the second one from his sash. The fighting was done, the Spanish soldiers either wounded or surrendered. The Musketeers still in the courtyard froze, their eyes on their comrade as he marched across the open quad, pistol trained on the struggling Spanish officer.

Aramis focused solely on Guzman as the lieutenant pushed himself to his knees, shoulders hunched, hands held up in surrender.

“I beg you, señor. Show mercy.”

“Like you showed the boy?”

Guzman with adrenaline and fear, his voice pitched high as he pleaded with the angry Musketeer. “I’m sorry. Please, you are a man of God. You cannot do this.”

Aramis snorted a laugh. “I am not as pious as you would hope.” He leveled the pistol at Guzman’s head, relishing in the dread he saw in the Spaniard’s eyes. Not a soul in the courtyard moved. After a few moments, Aramis stepped back and slowly lowered his arm to his side. “But I made a promise. You will not die on this soil. But I assure you, monsieur, after time in a French prison, you may wish you had.”

He turned, searching for Athos to allow the Captain to take custody of the prisoner.

“Aramis!”

Porthos’ warning had him spinning back to Guzman, instinctively ducking to the side as the man launched himself from his crouch, dagger aimed for Aramis’ chest. Twisting, he grunted in pain, but easily avoided the blade. Sweeping a foot out, he hooked the lieutenant’s ankle and pulled it out from under him, sending Guzman to the dirt, the dagger flying from his hand.

Aramis tightened his grip on the pistol and stepped forward as Guzman scuttled toward the dagger. The officer reached out a hand, only to have it pinned to the ground by a boot, a finger’s length from its target.

Guzman screamed in pain as Aramis ground the heel of his boot into the appendage, twisting the flesh viciously before releasing the pressure, allowing him to pull the wounded hand back to his body.

A familiar touch gripped his shoulder, and Aramis let his arm fall once again, the pistol no longer needed.

“I assume this is the lieutenant we’ve heard so much about?”

Aramis snorted at Porthos’ assessment. “Lieutenant Guzman, allow me to introduce you to a friend. This is Porthos, of France’s Musketeers.”

“Musketeers,” Guzman all but spat the word. He glared at Aramis, holding his broken and bleeding hand to his chest. “I knew you were no monk.”

“As I knew you were no officer.”

“You are standing on Spanish ground.” He announced petulantly. “And I am a lieutenant in the service of King Phillip of Spain. You will release me at once!”

“You are now a prisoner of King Louis of France.” Athos corrected as he approached, motioning for d’Artagnan to take the man into custody. “But I doubt you will appreciate the distinction.”

As d’Artagnan dragged Guzman to his feet and over toward the other prisoners, Athos and Porthos stepped in front of their friend, studying his face.

“’Mis?”

“He’s right. This is Spanish soil. We have no authority here.”

“It is a house of God,” Athos responded. “Perhaps we should let Treville work out the details.”

“He killed Aaron,” Aramis said, his voice breaking on the novice’s name. His eyes locked onto the Lieutenant, narrowing as d’Artagnan forced him to his knees next to his men. “Stabbed him to get the horse.”

Athos took a deep breath, releasing it through his nose. “And he will be treated accordingly, I assure you.”

Aramis sighed and shook his head, his shoulders slumping as the weight of the loss began to register. “I’m tired of losing people I care about.”

Athos and Porthos exchanged a glance, neither knowing what to say.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis sat on the stone steps near the entrance to the monastery, his eyes distant, impassive face turned toward the activity in the courtyard. Athos said nothing as he wrapped a strip of cloth around his friend’s ribs to stabilize them, hesitant to intrude upon the younger man’s grief.

A quick assessment had determined Aramis’ ribs were more likely cracked than broken, but they were taking no chances, knowing the injury would be painful no matter the severity. Although his head still ached, he assured them he was free of concussion, and the bruises, while angry-looking and painful, would fade with time.

If only the other pain would fade as easily.

“It was not your fault,” Athos said, tying off the bandage and taking a seat on the step below. He tucked the remaining bandages into his saddlebag, pulling it closer, hand on the flap.

“I sent him out there,” Aramis said with little emotion.

“Guzman is the only one who bears the blame.”

Aramis closed his eyes but didn’t respond.

Athos sighed. He could see how much the young monk’s death weighed upon his friend. Like everything else that had happened, Aramis was determined to shoulder the responsibility – even when it wasn’t his alone to bear.

The sound of footsteps caught his attention, and he looked up to see Porthos and d’Artagnan approach the steps. Porthos stopped, one foot on the edge of the step where Athos sat and leaned forward, his eyes raking over Aramis’ bruised and battered form.

“You all right?”

Athos shifted his gaze to Aramis’ bowed head, watching as the marksman nodded slowly.

“I’ll be fine.”

He glanced at Porthos, both of them tilting their heads in doubt.

Reaching into his saddlebag, Athos removed a scarred piece of leather and held it out toward Aramis.

“I believe this is yours.”

Aramis made no move to take the pauldron and, after a few moments, Athos laid it down on the stone beside him.

“Whether you return to Paris with us now, Aramis, or choose to stay, it will always be yours.” He clasped a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed before pushing himself up from the step and moving off to see to his men.

Porthos waited a beat, then squat down on the step and ducked his head, trying to catch Aramis’ eyes.

“I know this is all important to you.” He waved a hand toward the monastery towering behind them. “And I know you feel you need to atone for whatever it is you think you’ve done, but I’m goin’ to just say this flat out. We need you. I need you.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I ain’t goin’ to beg, and if you decide it ain’t your life anymore, I’ll accept it. But do me one favor, think on it. I can’t walk away if you’re just doin’ this to punish yourself.”

Aramis’ only response was to close his eyes, his head sinking lower, his hair falling, hiding his face from view.

“Porthos…”

D’Artagnan’s soft murmur directed his attention to the somber procession currently making its way from the stable door.

The monks moved from the stable, lined up in rows of twos, the body of the slain novice perched high upon the shoulders of the four lead men. Lips moving in silent entreaty, eyes on the ground, they offered up their pleas for Aaron’s immortal soul. Abbé Fouquet brought up the rear of the march, his head bowed, his hands clasped in prayer.

The solemn parade moved past them, quietly, reverently, carrying their fallen brother down the walkway to the open doors of the small chapel just past the chapter hall.

Aramis’ head rose as the monks shuffled by, his eyes tracking the still body of the young novice as it passed. Pulling his shirt back over his head, he pushed himself up from the step, wrapped an arm around his chest and without a word, followed the procession to the chapel.

“He heard you, Porthos,” d’Artagnan assured as Porthos rose to his feet, watching the dejected form of their friend slip through the door of the chapel.

“I know.” Porthos sighed. “Just not sure it’ll make any difference.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

They laid Aaron’s body upon the stone altar on the far side of the chapel, his eyes closed, his arms bent across his still chest. The monks kneeled in prayer, Fouquet leading them in a benediction before nodding to them in quiet dismissal.

When they had all gone, Aramis silently moved to stand next to Fouquet, unshed tears pulsing behind his eyes as he forced himself to look at the young novice’s body.

“It seems death follows me wherever I go.”

“You’re a soldier,” Fouquet countered. “I would be surprised if it did not.”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis whispered. “I did not mean for this to happen.”

“You are not to blame.”

Aramis shook his head. “I sent him in there. I thought to protect him and instead, sent him directly to his doom. Who else is there to blame?”

Fouquet paused and turned, studying the young man beside him. “Was it your intent to put him in a position to be attacked? Or were you trying to keep him away from the violence?”

Aramis continued to shake his head, his eyes locked on the boy’s slack face. “I should have made him go with you and the others. I should never have sent him out alone.”

Fouquet returned his gaze to the body, his smile fond. “Aaron would never have stayed in hiding. This I know. When he first arrived here, he reminded me of another young man I’d known many years ago in seminary. A young man so impetuous and impulsive he acted without a thought to his own safety or wellbeing.”

Aramis huffed a laugh, devoid of humor. “You’ll have to introduce me to him sometime. I’m sure we’d have much in common.”

The abbé chuckled. “Most assuredly. I’m pleased to say, that boy grew up to be a fine man, a good man.”

“A future Aaron will never see.”

Fouquet sighed, nodding in agreement. “My point is, no matter the cost or the consequences, that other boy always did as his conscience bade him. He trusted in his own good sense – or lack of it. Do you really believe you would’ve been able to keep Brother Aaron from helping in any way he saw fit? You gave him a purpose – one with meaning and one that should have kept him far from danger. But, God has his own designs, and it is not for us to judge his will.”

“How could God want this?” Aramis asked. “Why would God want this?”

“It is not for us to ask why,” Fouquet shrugged. “Aaron will be missed, but he will not be forgotten. Because of what he did and because of who he was.” He turned and waited until he had Aramis’ attention before continuing.

“I understand you are torn. It is difficult to serve two masters. René, we are all given a path and you are in a unique position to know what that path is. To deviate from it is to deny the gift you’ve been given. You lost your way, but you cannot shrink from the hard choices, only try to rise to meet them head on. You must follow your true calling.”

“And what if I’m no longer sure what that is?”

Fouquet cupped a hand on the younger man’s cheek. “Listen to those voices in your heart. The path is there, Aramis. You must choose to follow it.”

The marksman’s lips lifted into a tremulous smile. “I think that’s the first time you’ve called me that. Aramis.”

“Isn’t that who you are?” Fouquet shrugged.

Aramis shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps. But what of my vow to God?”

“Did you not also make a vow to your fellow Musketeers? Who is to say keeping that vow was not what God expects of you?”

Aramis nodded and reached toward his chest, his fingers finding the jeweled cross that still hung around his neck. “I’ve made many vows.” He thought of Anne, their son, how he promised to protect them, to always be there for them. “How am I to keep them all?”

“You must decide which ones are closest to your heart.” Fouquet offered sagely. “God will accept any answer if it truly comes from there.” He patted the younger man on the chest and silently turned and walked away, leaving Aramis to make the most important decision of his life.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

D’Artagnan kicked at the dirt, sighing as he glanced once again at the unmoving form of Porthos, standing in front of the newly erected gate leading into the monastery.

Once the word reached Douai that the monastery had been liberated from its Spanish conquerors, the villagers had appeared in droves with tools and supplies, eager to help the monks repair the damage the battle had wrought. The little farmer, Pietro, who had aided the Musketeers by dropping the charges they’d used to blow the gates right under the eyes of the Spanish guards, had waved, nodding his head as he guided his mule through the throng of activity, his wagon laden with timber that would be used to rebuild the heavy gates he’d helped to destroy.

It was those gates they waited before now. Athos leaned against a tree on the far side of the road, reins held loosely in his hand, the brim of his hat pulled low to shade his eyes from the morning sun. A few paces in front of the gate, Porthos stood silently, patiently, like a statue, eyes locked on the monastery.

D’Artagnan shuffled back toward Athos, tossing a rock down the road as his impatience began to get the better of him.

“How much longer are we going to wait?”

In his defense, they had been lingering outside the monastery for over an hour. Athos had elected to send the prisoners back to Paris with the other Musketeers at daybreak, knowing Treville was eager to interrogate them to garner any information about King Phillip’s war strategy. He had given strict orders to keep Lieutenant Guzman in shackles. The man had murdered one of the monks in cold blood, and Athos had made a promise he would be held accountable for it.

“Do you want to try to make him move without Aramis?”

D’Artagnan studied the big man for a moment, then shook his head. “Do you really believe he’ll come?”

Athos shrugged. “Porthos does, and he knows Aramis better than anyone.”

Although he had no doubt Porthos’ faith in their friend remained steadfast, Athos was not as convinced. He’d seen the marksman’s face after Guzman had been taken away. It was obvious Aramis had seen something special in the young novice, and he had always been far too ready to heap guilt and accountability upon his own shoulders. It was that characteristic that had driven him from them to begin with, and Athos had no idea if it would be enough to steer him back to them now.

“What if he’s wrong?”

What if Porthos was wrong? What if Aramis decided this was truly where he wanted to be. Athos wasn’t sure Porthos could say goodbye twice. For all his strength and bravado, he held those he loved close to his heart. To lose Aramis again – for good… Athos wasn’t sure if he wanted to see what that would do to Porthos’ carefully constructed sense of belonging.

“You’d better pray he isn’t. Bear in mind,” he looked at the Gascon from the corner of his eyes, “I’m not half as skilled as Aramis in patching you up.”

The three Musketeers stood silent, every passing moment a weight in their hearts. After another thirty minutes, Athos sighed, knowing they could not delay any longer. He took a breath, about to tell the others they should go when the heavy gates creaked and opened.

Porthos arms dropped to his side and he tensed as the familiar figure stepped out.

Aramis was fully clothed in his leathers, weapons belt securely fastened, pauldron in place. He froze at the sight of his three friends, hat halfway to his head, his eyes wide in surprise as Porthos let out a booming laugh.

The big man stomped toward him, picked him up in a bear of a hug and squeezed him tight.

“Porthos!” Aramis grunted in pain. “Careful, ribs!”

Dropping him, Pothos stepped back, but kept his hands on his shoulders to steady him, face lit with a smile. “Sorry.” His voice held a hint of apology.

Aramis raised a brow and returned the smile. “I’ll live.” He glanced down at his hat, which had been crushed between them. “Not so sure about this, though.”

Portho’s grin widened. “I’ll buy you a new one.” He released his friend and placed his hands on his hips, his expression one of reproof. “It’s about time. I missed breakfast. Was startin’ to get hungry.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” Aramis tutted, making a show of smoothing the brim of his hat with his palm.

Porthos laughed again and threw an arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the road where Athos and d’Artagnan awaited with four saddled horses. D’Artagnan jumped forward and wrapped his arms around him with almost as much enthusiasm as Porthos. When he stepped back, Athos took his place, taking Aramis’ hand in both of his, a rare smile gracing his face.

“I fear if you didn’t walk through those gates soon, Porthos would have stormed them again.”

Aramis dipped his head, chuckling. “I think the monks have had quite enough excitement for a while.”

He released the marksman’s hands as d’Artagnan handed him the reins of his horse. Brushing a palm against Aramis’ pauldron, Athos sobered, his eyes inquiring.

“Is this what you want?”

Aramis responded without hesitation. “Yes.”

“You said that before.”

The marksman nodded, his lips pursing as he considered his answer. “I know. And I was… then. But I have come to realize the greater good is perhaps not as important as the greater need.” He raised his gaze and met his Captain’s, and Athos saw no doubt in the dark eyes. “I know where I am needed for now.”

“For now?” Athos asked, one brow raised pointedly.

Aramis shrugged. “I cannot know what the future may hold, but the present is something I can influence.”

Porthos, still hovering just behind Aramis shoulder, clapped him on the back and grinned. “Then what are we waiting for? I believe we have a war to fight.”

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's our take (albeit a bit Aramis-centric) on the season 3 premiere. Feasible? Since Douai, at the time, was smack dab in the middle of Spanish territory, we couldn't help but decide Aramis made a decision based on something other than location -- but was that just a throwaway line? Or was the name of the town planted for a specific purpose? Our devious little minds decided they knew exactly what they were doing. :) We'd love to hear what you thought! What do you expect or hope to see when the boys return? Thanks to everyone who read and commented or left kudos. We hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> During the reign of Louis XIII, Douai and a large portion of what is now northern France was part of the Spanish controlled Netherlands. The area, called Flanders, was held under Spanish rule until captured by Louis XIV in the later part of the 17th Century. Since Aramis specifically mentioned the monastery at Douai instead of any other monastery securely on French soil, we could only conclude it was on purpose, knowing full well he was retiring to a place controlled by Spain. Of course, at the time, he had no idea there would be a war, but since he gave us a specific reference to this monastery, we decided his choice would have some consequences.


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